Alfred slowly sat up on the couch. Sunlight was pouring through the window. It seemed he'd fallen asleep at some point after his encounter. He glanced over and saw Matthew coming into the living room.

Alfred scooted backwards as fast as possible, falling over in the process. He sat up quickly and backed up against the wall, staring at his brother with wide eyes.

"Al?" Matthew said, yawning. "What's wrong . . . ?"

Alfred noticed his brother's eyes were blue once again. Perhaps it had been a dream?

"N . . . Nothing's wrong," Alfred said, relaxing slightly. He stood up with slightly shaking legs. "W-What time is it?"

"We're already late," Matthew said with another yawn. "Why didn't you wake me up? And why were you sleeping out here?"

"I—no reason," Alfred muttered. "Sorry, I guess I slept in."

Matthew went into the kitchen to make toast for the both of them. Alfred went to the bathroom and examined his neck. He found a thin mark and faint traces of dried blood.

So it hadn't been a dream.

"Why're you late?" Arthur muttered to Alfred as the latter slid into his seat with an apology to the teacher for being tardy.

"Me and—me and Mattie slept in," Alfred said, trying for a grin. "We just decided to skip the first few minutes of class. Y'know."

"You're a bad influence on your brother," Arthur muttered.

Alfred's false grin slid off his face and he looked down at his desk.

"So, what happened with Matthew?" Francis asked. He, Arthur, and Alfred stood around Alfred's locker as everyone crowded the halls to get to the cafeteria for lunch.

Alfred said nothing and stared at Francis with wide eyes. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His hands shook slightly.

Francis misinterpreted the wide eyes and open mouth as signs of memory loss.

"I mean, with the knife," he clarified.

Alfred turned away. "It—was—nothing," he said jerkily. "Just some—paint. M-Mattie—had a—art project."

"But then why'd the chem. test turn up positive for blood?" Arthur asked, frowning.

"I-I dunno," Alfred mumbled. "Maybe—the paint—"

"Had similar properties," Francis finished. "Bullshit. What's wrong?"

"But if you say a word about this to them . . . I'll know, and then you're in trouble."

"Nothing," Alfred whispered.

"We'll ask Matthew ourselves, then," Arthur said impatiently. Alfred's head snapped up and he looked at him in horror. "He's getting his lunch now, and when we all meet, we'll—"

"N-No—you can't!" Alfred cried.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" Francis snapped.

"Please—don't tell Mattie—don't tell him about this!"

Alfred's breathing was slightly shallow. "Please," he whispered, his voice cracking a bit. "D-Don't say—anything."

"It's much more convenient to keep you alive . . . and the same goes for your friends, Arthur and Francis. . . . I won't kill you, but I can remove your voice . . . take away your motor skills . . . eliminate your sight and hearing. . . . Did I scare you!?"

"Are you sick?" Arthur demanded. Alfred shook his head.

Francis sighed. "Alright, Alfred, we won't say anything to Matthew. But I want an explanation later."

Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks," he whispered.

"C'mon, let's get to lunch," Arthur said.

"Oh," Arthur said at lunch as if he'd just remembered something. "There were three more found dead in the city. More serial killings."

"That's terrible," Matthew said softly. "I hope they catch the murderer soon."

Alfred stared at his food.

"Aren't you hungry?" Francis asked. "You're usually like an animal when it comes to food."

Alfred's plate was untouched. He pushed it away. "I feel sick," he mumbled.

"I could eat it for you," Matthew offered.

Alfred jumped. "Um—oh . . . sure."

Arthur and Francis exchanged confused looks.

"Are you sure you're not sick?" Arthur asked again.

Alfred shook his head, but then stopped and nodded. "Actually . . . I'm pretty tired."

"Is school stressing you out that much?" Francis asked. "Come on, we've only got a few more months left."

"Y-Yeah—man, all the homework . . ." Alfred put a fake grin on his face, even though he looked as if he would start crying any minute. "So stressful."

Arthur and Francis exchanged looks again. Matthew simply seemed concerned and confused.

Ten days later

Alfred had been sleeping very poorly since the demon had revealed himself to him. He'd been plagued with nightmares whenever he did manage to sleep and always woke up in a cold sweat before looking over at his sleeping brother.

The demon had settled into a pattern of going out to kill every other night, allowing Matthew's body to rest in between. He would say innocent things to Alfred in Matthew's voice with a sadistic grin.

At about half past ten, Alfred saw Matthew sitting up in bed and getting up slowly, putting on the same dark pants and hoodie as always, and stowing the pocketknife away.

He looked over and saw Alfred staring at him, on guard. He smiled, went to the door, and turned on the light. His eyes were pure black; the demon had taken over yet again.

"Hello, Al," the demon said, using Matthew's voice. "I wanted to say—thanks for not telling anyone about this. I really appreciate it."

"D-Don't—" Alfred pressed his lips together. "Don't—use his voice."

The demon grinned satanically. "I'll grant your request tonight as thanks for being a good sport," he said in a much different voice. "But from this night on, it's aaall on my terms, dear brother."

Alfred stared at the demon. He slowly got out of bed.

"Hm?" the demon looked at Alfred with a bored expression. "Oh, I'm sorry, am I in your way?"

He stepped aside to allow Alfred passage with a mocking smile. Alfred ignored this sarcastic action and quickly shoved the demon into the wall, pinning him there.

"If you want something, this is hardly the way to ask," the demon said, smirking.

"You—you c-can't keep doing this," Alfred whispered. "People—are dying—because you're killing them."

"Oh, how clever," the demon muttered. "I have an appointment in the city, dear brother. Get out of my way."

"No—I can't let you d-do this!" Alfred exclaimed. "I-I'll do whatever it takes to stop you—"

The demon laughed out loud at this. "Empty words from an empty mind! You wouldn't hurt your dear brother, would you?"

Alfred stared at him with wide eyes. The demon smirked.

"Oh, human love," he muttered. "You'd do anything, you say? What about sacrificing your own life?"

In an instant the demon had the pocketknife blade out and against Alfred's throat. Alfred withdrew his hands as quickly as possible and the demon easily kicked him over and sat on his stomach, pinning him to the ground with the blade still at Alfred's throat.

"Mm, that's what I thought," the demon murmured, nodding. "You humans are all so eager to save what you love, but so quick to back down if you have to sacrifice yourself to do it."

"Kill . . ."

"What was that?"

"K—Kill me," Alfred whispered, tears forming in his eyes. "Kill me, and th-then get out of Mattie."

The demon threw back his head and laughed. "Not such a coward after all, then! I don't think so! You know that I'd only kill you and stay in your dear brother's body!? Besides—your face is so funny when you see me! You're too amusing to kill!

"Oh, but since you're so eager for death . . ." the demon traced the knife blade over Alfred's bare chest. "Why don't you have a taste of pain?"

He sliced downwards and Alfred gasped shallowly, his mouth opening wide in a voiceless scream.

The demon dragged the knife across Alfred's abdomen, not lifting it out of the flesh, but not going in any deeper than what was enough to cause him pain. Alfred gasped and trembled as the knife opened up his torso. Tears ran down the side of his face.

When the knife came to the oblique, the demon carefully lifted it out. Trails of blood trickled out of the long wound. Alfred's breathing was shallow with fear and pain. His hands trembled madly.

"You won't try to stop me again, will you?" the demon asked. "Oh, and because of your display of insolence . . ." he switched to using Matthew's voice. "Remember, one word about this to anyone and . . ." he made a motion with the bloody knife. "Well, I'm going out now, Al. I'll see you in the morning."

The demon left the room. Alfred tried to sit up, but the wound made it too painful. He fell back down and continued to cry.

The demon returned a few hours later. Alfred was still on the floor. The demon frowned and kicked Alfred's side, eliciting a gasp of pain.

"Oh, you didn't die after all," the demon said in Matthew's voice. "Still upset about that little cut? Just sleep it off!"

The demon laughed and took off the outfit, stripping back down to boxers. He placed the now-clean knife back on the dresser and got into bed. The demon went unconscious then, allowing Matthew's body to rest.

When Matthew woke up, he was late for school. He muttered something indistinguishable and got out of bed. Then he noticed Alfred on the floor.

"Al, why're you sleeping there?" he said, yawning. "We're late again . . ."

He went over to his brother. "You're going to catch—oh, god!"

He had spotted the long wound. Matthew dropped to his knees. "Al, what happened!?"

Alfred looked slowly at his brother, wincing. "Mattie . . . look at me . . ."

Matthew did so. Alfred breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that his eyes were blue.

"Thank g-god," he whispered. "Mattie, I-I'm fine—"

"We need to get you to the doctor or something," Matthew exclaimed. "I'll call an ambulance—"

"No—" Alfred hissed. "No doctor. T-They'll figure out—"

"Figure out what!?"

Alfred bit his lip. "T-The wound's—not deep—I don't need a doctor."

"We still need to treat this," Matthew said, his hands shaking slightly. "Can you stand?"

Alfred struggled to sit up, but Matthew stopped him. "N-No—don't strain yourself. I'll get the stuff from the bathroom. Stay here."

Matthew did an excellent job of cleaning Alfred's wound. Both of them knew the basics of taking care of oneself, as they were on their own quite a bit. By the time he'd finished, Alfred could sit up, albeit with some help.

"Thanks," Alfred murmured. "T-Talk about irony . . ."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Do you think you can go to school today?" Matthew asked worriedly. "You don't have to, that wound may be shallow but it's pretty long—"

"Actually, yeah, I'd like to stay home," Alfred whispered. "You can go."

"O-Okay," Matthew whispered. "Are you gonna be okay on your own?"

Alfred put on a false smile. "I'll b-be fine."

"I'll make something for lunch and leave it on the counter," Matthew said hurriedly. He stood and left the room.

Matthew was ready for school a few minutes later. He placed a sandwich on the dresser next to Alfred's bed, having helped his brother into bed earlier, and made sure Alfred was comfy.

"I still think you should see a doctor or something," Matthew murmured. "Don't try to get up yet, okay?"

Alfred nodded. "Mattie . . . ? Be safe . . ."

Matthew smiled. "Don't worry about me," he whispered. "The phone's right there if you need to call the school or anything."

He left the room. Alfred heard the front door shut.

Alfred slowly reached for the phone and dialed a familiar, if not oft-used number.

The other end rang a few times. Alfred was about to hang up when the phone was finally picked up.

"MESS Incorporated, Jane Jones speaking, how may I direct your call?"

"Mom . . . ? It's Al."

"Alfred, honey, what is it? We're very busy over here."

"I was—" Alfred gulped. "Well, I'm staying home sick t-today. I just wanted to talk . . ."

"Al, I'm sorry, I don't have time to—put that in Warehouse One, Rick! I'm sorry, Al, you were saying?"

"I was just thinking how m-much I miss—"

"No, Warehouse One! How do you get those two mixed up!? I'm sorry, Al, I have to go—call me later if you still need something!"

"Bye," Alfred whispered, but his mother had already hung up.