A/N: (Sorry I posted this update later on ff than AO3...slow internet and all)

Apologies for a very short update. Can't really help it when I'm supposed to be studying for my asian history exam (in about 6 hrs) instead of revising this bit

also I have a very important note regarding this at the end. Please spare a minute or two to read it so we can all understand each other, yea? Good!

also there was a time I gave my hand at playing guitars but then it turns out that my hands were too soft so one guitar lesson later, I spent the rest of the day with swelling fingers. So now I just stuck with art and writing. /sob
Basically I know nothing about musical instruments. So to the actual musicians who read my fic: Spare me and it will be nice if you tell me what you guys think even tho I tried to minimalize the description ;;;;


At some point in time, a certain memory resurfaces in his head.

Arthur remembers the heat, he and Alfred sitting on the floor of his room, fanning themselves with their crumpled drafts for their lab report because the insides of their bodies feel like a furnace and Arthur thought that if he didn't get as much air, no matter how warm they are, he's going to faint from hypertension.

Arthur remembers the sensations but he couldn't quite make out how their mindless conversation about human life and morality turned into Alfred asking him if his parents know he's gay.

"Of course they don't." Was what he told him, no hesitation, very sure of himself.

Alfred says nothing at first draft still flapping noisily at himself-a desperate attempt to cool his body similar to how Arthur does, but with less grace that makes Arthur internally grimace at the ruin he made of the finely white sheets of paper-then he tilts his head and raises an eyebrow.

"Why?"

Arthur frowns at the lack of tact in the question.

"You know why,"

He bites out, glaring holes into his notes, wishing he could make out the jumbled mess of letters and not see his brother's face.


There was a man standing in front of his flat's door.

Broad shoulders, red hair, eyes dark and hard that glares at his door number and it made Arthur drop his bag of groceries, spilling candies and chocolates that appeals to children more than the adult that he is who bought them and for a short moment he felt his blood drain from his face as he thinks of the disappointed looks and words his father-the man before him-will say.

Owen's voice echoes in the back of his head, saying that he should just let it fly over his head, because they're stupid and they don't matter but its hard when they're the very things you hate about yourself, and hearing them come out of this very person's mouth makes it thrice as painful.

Then the profile of his father turns towards the noise to face him and Arthur sees it.

No, this is not his father.

The eyes, the built, the hair, and even the way he carries himself resembles him, but no, this isn't him.

A choked gasp manages its way out of Arthur's throat, a hand gripping his door keys so hard he feels the key's curves and contours, hard and warm, biting deep into his flesh to the point it starts to tear at his skin.

"…Alistair?"


Alistair is his eldest brother.

He's everything Arthur isn't. Or so their parents made him believe until Alistair went into high school, became a senior and got involved in things their parents does not approve and suddenly Alistair is no longer the responsible, smart, and reliable son in the family.

No longer the favourite son.

Well, it did not happen immediately. Alistair's supposed fall from grace, that is.

It happened after a year or so during Alistair's university days.

Arthur was barely out of elementary back then, only twelve years old to Alistair's twenty, but the shouts and screams exchanged between his father and brother were loud and clear, voices booming, resonating throughout their home that Arthur fears the neighbours could overhear and come over and look and they'll come upon the Kirklands' eldest son rubbing at his bleeding cheek and spitting blood at their enraged father whose face is as red as the blood that dripped down the side of his face, wet and sticky with his own son's spit. Blood in the Kirkland patriarch's knuckle.

The eldest son just wipes and wipes, mumbling something under his breath that made his mother gasp and cry harder, begging them to stop it, Arthur's here, not in front of the boy, please.

At that, Alistair pauses, looks at his mother and bites his tongue from saying anything more hurtful, even if he wanted to, because this is his mother and he loves her the most. Arthur knows it, as well as Dylan and Owen, because Alistair made sure that they all know this, as well as his hate for their father for reasons the younger brothers does not know. Will never know, because Alistair swore he'll take it to the grave, for Mum, he told them.

He tells them this again, as Alistair grins and bites his fag, the smell unbearable for little Arthur but bears it for a while, because this will be the last time he'll smell that pungent smell.

Arthur remembers sobbing at that time, begging Alistair to change his mind although he knows that it is futile. Alistair was never the type to change his mind once he said it aloud after all, a habit he's got since the day he stopped following Dad's orders and doing whatever he liked, whenever and wherever he wanted.

This time, he wanted out.

Out of the stifling house, away from their…bastard of a father-he says it with a hiss, as if the words were poison-because nobody owns him but himself and he's got the right to do whatever the bloody fuck he wants.

He laughs-not ironically-when his little brothers hug him, his small bag containing what little of the things he owned-bought by his own money that he got through questionable means that he refused to answer what-not the shite that fucker spent with his money, falls on the ground.

"Fuck him," He says, then he whispers to his brothers, eyes crinkling in pain as he breathes deeply through his teeth, the stinking fag still stuck between them, he tells them, "…remember, you have the right to yourselves,"

Then be pauses, thinking his words carefully in his head and then, "Be careful, you lot" he adds-no-stresses.

His voice was trembling as he hugs the three of them tight for the last time.

Arthur remembers seeing the knowing glances his older brothers shared before Alistair finally, truly leaves the Kirkland property with nothing in his name, a look of peace on his face, the smoke from his fag trailing behind him like a cloak of white clouds.

Arthur thought that that was not the face of someone who lost everything they had and fell from grace.

That is the look of someone at peace, tasting freedom for the first time.


Of course, it's normal for siblings to hate each other.

Sibling rivalry and all.

But Arthur was the youngest brother, and therefore will always be the baby in the family.

Whenever he does anything that will warrant his brothers' wrath, all he gets was the look and nothing more. But if it were any of them who does it to each other, they'll get one hell of a beating. None of his brothers back down from a fight after all.

Still, it took Arthur years to realise that his brothers love him.

A few months later after Alistair's permanent depart, Dylan barges into his room uninvited in the middle of the night.

Arthur was groggy and naturally grumpy when Dylan starts gently shaking him, speaking low, begging him to get up, that this is important.

So Arthur does, eyebrows pointed into a sharp 'V'.

Instead of looking apologetic though, Dylan just grins and lifts his arms to reveal a box. "Happy Birthday," he says again in a whisper.

"Guess who's it's from, go on,"

The box gets gently shoved into his lap. The excitement alights in his brother's eyes, a deep shade of green similar to his when Arthur's hands reluctantly move to remove the seal.

In the box was a pair of dark-colored headphones.

The very same pair he wanted for months for a birthday present.

Arthur knows that something like this, something expensive and useless, his father will never approve to get him these, birthday or not. What he got from his father this morning was a thick heavy textbook filled with maths and variables he does not care to understand. Another disappointing year with a disappointing present.

So the tiny muffled gasp he makes was predictable and the widening grin in Dylan's eyes was to be expected.

"Come on, come on, and pick it up! It's yours!"

Dylan's hands dart toward the box, hands going underneath the headphones and pick a silver card underneath.

It's a birthday card.

It just says, Happy birthday brother dear.

Brother dear.

Arthur couldn't help himself from reading it in Alistair's voice, imagining his hands running roughly through his hair, laughing all the while because he likes Arthur's blond hair, different from his that is red that he got from Dad's. He always said Arthur was lucky to get his looks from Mum, unlike him who looked so much like a younger version of their Dad. Arthur used to think back then that it was only because Alistair loved Mum.

Well, now he knew.

No one else but Alistair calls him-them-brother dear, sarcastic or genuine, they couldn't quite tell with how much Alistair drawls but they stopped caring. Alistair had always been the eccentric type since he stopped following Dad's orders.

Arthur grabs the headphones and lets it hang on his neck, the weight and bulkiness uncomfortable but welcomed.

There were different feelings running through him as he reads the letters in the card over and over and the same reflects in Dylan's voice as he tells Arthur, voice firm, "make sure Dad will never see these, alright?"

Happy birthday, brother dear.

Grasping the headphones close to his chest, he nods.


"Do you want to get some lunch? I'm starving." Alistair announces as he glances at his watch.

Arthur makes a conscious glance at his surroundings, afraid to see someone he knows from a class seeing him walking with an older man. He gives his brother a dirty look when he feels the weight of Alistair's arm as it drapes on his shoulder, body close. Alistair had always been the handsy one between the four of them, never seem to manage to keep his hands to himself and always sought for his little brothers to cuddle with. He heard his older brothers complain more than once about people giving them strange looks in the street when they see Alistair hand's around theirs or their shoulders, thinking they're some very open gay couple, with Alistair's red hair and blue eyes from their blonde and green, the distinction between brothers is not easy to see.

He doesn't even understand why Alistair is here, of all places, even.

They never met face to face ever since the man left their home, that is true, but Alistair made sure to keep in contact with his little brothers in secret.

Except for Arthur.

They talk through calls and emails, but Arthur's replies are always short and clipped, so their conversations don't extend much from the usual "How are you doing?" "I'm fine, everything's okay."

The fact that Alistair didn't bother to say anything about him visiting him in his campus makes Arthur twice as unsettled.

He doesn't like doing things out of his routine, after all.

Its 1 pm, his class ended two hours ago. The hour after that was spent on him browsing candy isles and deciding how much can he waste on pretty-looking candies that he'll most likely give away to his flatmates or Alfred before the ants get them or reach the expiration date. After that he'll sleep the afternoon off until he can eat his dinner and sleep again.

Not like this.

That didn't stop Arthur from bringing Alistair to a nearby Ramen shop to eat, though.

When Arthur pointed at a cart by the corner of the street, telling his brother that their ramen is very popular to the students, he notices the look of unease in his brother's face. The confident steps became uncertain and fidgety and if the air could get any hotter, sweat could've formed on his forehead.

Arthur wonders why Alistair suddenly stops in his tracks, grasping at Arthur's wrist like a child pulling after their parent, asking them not to leave.

"What if…I take you out somewhere nicer, eh?"


They ended up in some restaurant inside a mall a town away from his campus.

The amount of attention and friendliness of their waiter unsettled Arthur, but his brother doesn't seem to mind, calling the waiter by his preferred name liberally and took advantage of his attentiveness whenever Alistair needed something.

Arthur glares at his brother across the table, silently berating the older "Why not ask for them all at once, you inconsiderate fuck?"

The food are expensive, definitely not something Arthur would consider to eat at any time of the week. Their food isn't even that impressive. Why Alistair bothered to take a one-hour drive to get here surprises Arthur.

When the food comes, Arthur silently eats, nibbling at his bread as he pretends to listen to his brother's one-sided conversation, making sure to nod and agree whenever Alistair stops to ask if he had been listening.

Surprisingly, it was Alistair who finished his meal first, who ordered a larger portion for himself than Arthur's. Barely eating half of his plate though, Arthur was already feeling full, so he urges his brother to pay for the bills already so they can leave, which Alistair does with no questions asked. He doesn't seem to mind that his little brother had grown to be such a food waster. So much left-over compared to Alistair's very empty plate, not a single speck of food left save for the sauce. If Arthur didn't know any better, his brother would've licked the plates clean too if they weren't eating in public.

The smile on the waiter's face seem to grow bigger and brighter when Alistair tips him half the price of the bill. He even got out of his way to greet them a goodbye as they leave the establishment, Alistair nodding and smiling in return as he ushers a fidgety Arthur out.

Arthur doesn't think he could ever get used to people like those. Very loud and accommodating, that is.

When they leave, Arthur wonders why they're walking around in the mall.

The questioning look directed at the older brother was answered by "I heard what happened to Stardust," and a shrug.

Arthur frowns.

Stardust.

It was months ago, December 22nd, he remembers. Arthur thinks that he'll never forget that fucking day until the day he dies.

It was one of those days.

When his father suddenly gets so mad at him for even just existing, so he snaps, almost scaring his Mum in her seat when her husband suddenly stand up and starts saying angry things.

Then he sees him, sitting quietly on a seat opposite theirs, trying to mind his own business and wishing to get eaten up by the ground because Arthur knows that that look will be never be good.

So as expected, that anger turns on him, then it moves on a tangent and suddenly everything Arthur did is everything his father hated. Like what is he planning with his life, failing every class he takes? How long is he going to embarrass him in front of people when they find out that his son can't even study right. Is it because of his damn "music"-he quoted the words angrily, fingers and all and Arthur thought those fingers will come off with how hard he moved them-again? He should be paying attention on his maths and sciences, not those stupid words and angry noises that doesn't make sense. He's not making any of them proud. It's that guitar's fault-

Then he leaves the room, Arthur's heart beating out of his chest. He just mentioned his guitar.

God, let it be not what he thought it was.

-his father is back with Stardust, her neck gripped painfully by his father's big hand, white and angry around it.

Then in a moment, Arthur's dreams were shattered into bits and left scattered on their pristine marble floor. Gone.


"Oy,Art." Arthur jumps as he was suddenly pulled away from his little reminiscence. His brother just gives him a side glance, scowling. The way his mouth was slighting crooked was saying that he was more upset that it's not allowed to smoke in malls, though so Arthur didn't give his look a care.

That is, until he notice where they were standing.

A music shop.

Arthur must have been standing for too long at the sign as Alistair grumbled and pushed him rather too rough inside.

"Come on," he tells him.

Shooting a scathing glare at the back of his brother's head, he follows, silently grumbling and rubbing at a spot on his arm that Alistair pushed at too hard. Always a dickhead.

Usually, when Arthur goes out to buy things on stores like these, he prefers to linger on aisles until one of the salespersons notices him and asks him for what he needs. That way, he doesn't need to approach one of them looking like he doesn't belong in the establishment and get most likely ignored until he speaks louder but by then his confidence is fully crushed and he will go home humiliated. It'll take him a couple more months before he gets the courage to return to the mall again after that.

Alistair though, seemed to think otherwise.

The moment they enter the shop, the frown on Alistair's face deepens and without much of a second thought, he finds a salesperson who was currently talking to some patrons and starts demanding attention.

Of course, when the salesperson politely tells him to wait, he does, with an impatient scowl with his arms crossed over his chest. The stereotypical annoying/demanding customer pose.

"Go have a look around while we wait," he says with a wave of his hand at Arthur, shooing his little brother away which Arthur does without much of a fuss. If he stayed away from Alistair maybe people will not think they came in the shop together.

Alistair is already starting to embarrass him.

So there he goes to the displays. Admiring the designs, occasionally swooning at the descriptions written below each instrument and shuddering at the number of zeroes he finds in the price tags.

Every time he sees an instrument and equipment he likes, he can't help but check the price and pale at them. He doesn't think Alistair is really serious about this.

"You want that one?"

He doesn't notice that his hand had reached out to one of the pretty ones he'd seen at the display, his fingers experimentally tugging and strumming. He jumps when he suddenly hears his brother's voice right behind him.

Yes, he wanted to tell him, but again, the price tag says it has zeroes too many and he doesn't even know just how much was his brother willing to pay for whatever guitar he picks.

Wanting it so much but too afraid for his brother's reaction, he ended up stammering a squeak that sounds like a cross between yes and no.

Alistair appeared unimpressed but turns to the salesperson standing next to him anyway.

"Show me that one." He points at the guitar Arthur was previously touching, much to Arthur's horror. The salesperson appeared to be happy though, at the prospect of selling something expensive, most likely. They always appear eager when you look like you're willing to buy an expensive product then become snobbish dicks when you say you're not interested after all.

So when the salesperson leaves to plug the guitar somewhere for a sound test, he approaches his brother and drops the bomb.

To which Alistair only answers with an annoyed grumble of "yea, yea."


During the sound testing, all Alistair did was tell the salesperson to "talk to my brother, he's the one who knows it" whenever they talk about its features and how so easy it is to be held and all the nice things Arthur had known the guitar can do when he first laid his eyes on it. Then when it was all over, Alistair asks him, "Is this what you really want? Because if you don't then we'll look somewhere else."

This time, Arthur meant it when he nodded distractedly, eyes focused on the guitar. He's already coming up with a name for her.

In the end, Alistair bought her for him.

On the ride back to Arthur's apartment, Alistair asked, "What're you going to call her?"

For a moment, he didn't say anything and Alistair thought that it was a topic that is not yet open for a discussion but then Arthur says-more like whispers, really, as if afraid that saying her name too loudly she'll follow her predecessor immediately.

"Spellcaster."


E/N:

About a few years ago, I wrote a research paper about how men and women depicted in television affects the youth's impression on "gender roles" and basically one of the subheadings in my research was about how the numbers of women raped by their own fathers (in the Philippines) was more frequent than the usual "raped by a non-relative", and that only around 2% were ever reported. One of the factors that contribute to why was that (1) fathers have power over their children, especially if you're a woman-considering most households are patriarchal; (2) they're threatened that their mother/siblings will be hurt/killed if they tell anyone; (3) the fear of a broken family; (4) the shame-basically goes down to the daughters seducing their own fathers and thus gets the blame for getting raped (which ironically, was also used by the [Spanish] friars during the Hispanic period because of the number of women these supposed "servants of God" impregnated. I'm telling you, we're not exaggerating when we say like 2/3 of our invaders are rapists because after the friars we get the japs)

I guess what's more sad with this is that there are cases that the mother knows and lets her husband rape her daughter(s) anyway because she doesn't want him to leave her. I want to say I'm kidding but I'm not. They happen even today.

Grosser cases were that the guy is a widower, rapes his daughter, impregnates daughter and then later rapes daughter's daughter who is like his daughter-slash-granddaughter. A case like this was literally broadcasted in the Philippine news television years ago and a year ago, we watched an indie film based on this for our movie reading class and I barfed outside the lect hall afterwards. Men are pigs.

Basically fathers don't just rape A DAUGHTER. If they have more then HECK YEA MORE CHOICES. Again, men are pigs.

ANOTHER THING: what do you guys say to another (USUKUS!) fic installsment in the Erotomania series soon? (haha I have no life)

This fic has a few more chapters left...we're almost there!