Clack.

Clack. Snap.

The page rustled as he turned it over, flipping the magazine back around and continuing onto the next paragraph. On the floor, the child leafed through an instruction booklet, carefully examining each picture before reaching to the pile of Legos scattered across the carpet.

Tsch-k. Snap.

Plastic bricks clicked and clattered against each other. Slowly the colorful pile on the floor grew smaller and smaller, until only a few pieces remained, buried between the fibers of the carpet.

On the wall hung an oakwood clock, stained a deep, dark brown. Below its face the pendulum swung behind a pane of glass, reflecting the quiet, drowsy living room back to its inhabitants. The clock hands moved of their own accord, or so it seemed: when they looked up after a time of 5 minutes, 10 had passed; a time of 10, and it was only 5.

The last page of the booklet fell shut, and the little boy leapt to his feet, cupping the miniature fire truck in his hands as he ran over to his father.

"Da-ad! Daddy, look! Look what I built!" he squealed with excitement, lifting the model over the side of the armchair. His father set down the magazine on the sidetable and took the truck carefully in his hands, inspecting it from all angles.

"Wow, good job, Alfred!" he said as he extended and retracted the ladder attached to the truck bed. "And you built this all in a half-hour?"

"Mm-hmm!" He nodded enthusiastically, reaching for the truck. Arthur handed it back gently. "And look, see? It can open the doors, an' the hood, and if you take off the roof there's a lil' man sitting inside it! He's got a steering wheel and a hat and everything!" Alfred pointed out each feature in turn. Arthur listened intently.

"That's really neat," he commented.

"And if you take it apart you can make a tiny dinosaur, or a motorcycle!" he continued.

"A motorcycle?"

"A motorcycle!"

"Which one are you going to build next?"

"I'm not sure yet. I just wanna drive the truck around for a little bit and then I'll choose," he said, rolling the toy up and down the arm of the chair. It zipped along the worn fabric and jumped over the indents where the buttons sat in the back. The car, accompanied by little zoom and whoosh noises, drove over to the other side, did a few gravity-defying slaloms along the side of the armrest, made an epic jump onto the sidetable and came to a stop on the magazine.

"What'cha reading?" the boy asked, looking at the colorful graphs and microscopic words chunked into rectangular, organized paragraphs.

"Hmm? Oh, it was an article on neurology, and how machines and computer programs nowadays can interpret brainwaves to do things like control robots."

The blank look on Alfred's face spoke for itself.

"Well—here. Okay, so first off, neurology is the study of the brain, and how it works. It's really complex and difficult, because human brains have so many different parts and we don't know how they all work."

"…Ok," Alfred said.

"Computers work a lot like human brains. And when you want a computer to do something, you have to give it a code. Like a…signal, or command, but in a special computer language."

"There are languages for computers?"

"Mm-hmm! They have special names, like Javascript, or HTML, or C++."

"Those sound really weird."

"They are weird, I suppose—they're different from human languages. Because you're not talking to the computer, you're just telling it what to do."

"Can computers talk to people, then?"

"There are scientists who are trying to make talking computers, but they haven't finished yet."

"Aw, I wanna talk to a computer!"

Arthur laughed. "By the time you're my age, you'll probably be able to."

His eyes lit up. "Really? No way!" He paused, and thought for a moment. "So what do human brains have to do with it?"

"Well, using the computer languages, they typed up a special program. It's like a big instruction manual, telling the computer what to do with any information it's given. After that, they stuck sensors to a person's head, sensors that could read brainwaves and tell the difference between them."

"So there are different kinds of brainwaves? And we can read them?"

"Some of them. And this special program read those brainwaves, and then translated them from brainwaves into a computer language, which told the computer what to do. In this case, the brainwaves told the computer to move a robot arm."

"That sounds really complicated."

"It was; that's why it's such a big deal. Now it might be possible for people without arms or legs to get a robot arm or leg instead, and move it with their brain."

"Like a cyborg! That's awesome!" Alfred's face lit up with wonder.

Arthur smiled, ruffling his hair. "Isn't it? Everyone in the scientific community is insanely excited."

Alfred picked up the truck and fiddled with one of the doors absentmindedly. "When I'm older, d'you think maybe I could talk to computers? And make cyborg robots?"

He looked down at his son and felt joy welling up in his chest. "Are you saying you want to learn how to code?"

"Is that how I can talk to computers?"

Arthur nodded, growing more and more excited.

"Then yeah! I wanna learn how to code!" Alfred proclaimed, beaming.

Arthur beamed back.

"I still don't understand how they did it."

"I've been explaining it to you for the past 10 minutes! Have you been listening at all?"

"Yeah, yeah." He waved the comment away with his free hand. "And so now you're teaching little Alfred how to program?" Francis said incredulously, sipping from a thin glass of champagne.

"He's so excited. I'm so excited. It's like a special father-son thing that we can do together," Arthur said, leaning back on the couch and clutching a mug of tea in his hands. He'd been so excited about finding a common interest between himself and his son, and wanted to tell anyone and everyone about this new development, he'd forgotten to be pissed off by Francis' very existence.

Francis, on the other hand, was confused. He was so used to a grumpy Arthur that the new cheery disposition made him seem like an entirely different person. The chatter was something new, too. He could barely get a word in edgewise—not that he wasn't happy at the chance to do less talking and more drinking. Plus, now that Arthur was focusing more on what he was saying and less on Francis, the Frenchman was free to let his eyes glide over the smooth curves of his chest and the youthful, rounded arc of his jawline. After all, admiring the finer things in life was what he did best.

Heh.

"…he really likes Legos, too, so I'm thinking maybe for his birthday—since it is coming up and all, on the 2nd—I could gift him one of those robot sets, or Mindstorms, although I'm not sure how much they cost…"

You know, if you put all his features down on paper, wrote them in a list one-by-one and tried to draw them, he'd be ugly. A rounded nose and thick eyebrows and messy dirty-blonde hair weren't supposed to work with skinny arms and legs and a little extra baby fat in the cheeks and a breast that never really finished growing. But combined, thrown together on Arthur, it looked right. He looked cozy, comfortable, like coming home. There weren't words in English or French to describe how nice he looked, the little fire that lit itself in Francis' core and warmed up his stomach when he saw him.

It was bizarre, honestly. Not even he understood how it worked, but it did. And as long as he stuck to the current strategy of look-but-don't-touch, it could stay that way.

"…do they offer programming courses for 5-year-olds? I wonder if they're teaching it in the public schools at all…anyway, it's just so nice to find something we can bond over, it makes me feel even more like a father, you know?"

"Hmm." Francis nodded, setting the champagne flute gently onto the glass of the coffee table. It made a little clink, the sound reverberating until he slid a fabric coaster underneath. "Well, you seem quite happy about it," he observed, still maybe a little too focused on the way Arthur's lips moved when he spoke. It was like those documentaries you watched on TV when you had absolutely nothing better to do, where the camera lingered on and the narrator dissected every last movement of the specimen at hand.

Arthur drank the last of his tea, tipping the bottom of his mug up toward the ceiling to catch the dregs before getting up from the couch. He walked into the kitchen, at which point Francis was snapped out of his lustful reverie. Glancing down at the empty flute on the coffee table, he thought he might get a refill. But then again…thoughts like this were unlike him, at least for someone whom he had known and despised for as long as Arthur. Usually getting to know someone's personality affected his attraction towards them, but now his eyes were drifting over to the kitchen, their gaze slowly moving down the arch of his back…

Yeah. Definitely enough alcohol for today.

Arthur came back with a fresh mug of tea, steam wafting from the top and blurring the lines that defined his face.

"Why do you drink such a warm drink in the middle of summer?" Francis asked, trying to get an argument going. He was done thinking for the day, especially if he was thinking about Arthur's body. There is nothing attractive about this man's personality, he reminded himself, settling back in his chair and adjusting his shirt collar.

Arthur glanced up from his mug. "What's wrong with it? As long as I enjoy it, and I'm dressed light enough, it's not a problem. Besides," he added, "my apartment has an AC. So I'm used to it being nice and cool."

"I still don't understand how you can stand it. And you're in my apartment now, and my apartment is 28 degrees Celsius."*

"Maybe if you didn't insist on wearing so many layers of clothing you'd feel cooler."

"Oh please, as if you would know anything about sacrificing comfort for fashion," he scoffed, tossing a lock of hair over his shoulder. It looked sexier that way, in his opinion. He'd left it down today, when he'd heard Arthur was coming over. So he could rub his good looks in his face, of course.

"I may not know much about fashion, but I know plenty about heat stroke." Arthur sipped his tea and glanced at Francis from across the top of the mug. "But that's none of my business."**

Francis cocked his head and stared at him, annoyance mixing with amusion*** on his face. "Hmm…" He hummed to himself, the cogs in his brain turning.

Arthur lowered his mug as he stared back. "…Francis?"

He continued humming, apparently deep in thought. At this point, the mug had been set onto the coffee table and Arthur sat uncomfortable and nervous on the sofa, eyes flicking around the room. "Francis…I don't like the look on your face…"

"A-HA!" he yelled. Arthur jumped, upsetting a throw pillow. "Jesus CHRIST, don't do that!" he yelped, but Francis ignored him.

"I'll give you a makeover!" he announced triumphantly, bringing his fist down on his palm. Arthur stared at him, unamused.

"Are you serious."

"Très serieux," he replied, looking proud of himself.

"Are you some sort of 12 year-old school girl? Absolutely not!" Arthur said. He had crossed his arms.

"Yes! We can look for clothes—"

"No—"

"And I can fix up your hair—"

"No—"

"And I have a little makeup that you can use, too, foundation for your vampire-y indoor skin—"

"What the hell?"

"But the absolute first order of business would be to pluck those eyebrows."

He splayed his hands protectively across his face. "Don't you dare touch my eyebrows!" he hissed, in a very vampire-like fashion.

"Pfft, I'm the one who has to look at them all the time," Francis said, leaning his stubbly chin on his hand.

"You don't have to look at my face," Arthur muttered, still defending his eyebrows.

"PLEASE. It's setting a bad example for Alfred. How traumatizing must it be for a boy to come home, everyday, to a father who has caterpillars nesting over his eyes!"

Arthur relaxed his arms, scowling. "They're not nearly that bad. And where do you come up with this stuff, anyway?"

He shrugged, picking up the champagne flute and twirling it absent-mindedly between his fingers. "I wouldn't be a published author if I wasn't creative. And they are without a doubt that bad. Let me pluck them."

"Either your creativity or all that alcohol. And no." His arms had flown in front of his chest again, crossed defiantly. "If you get within 3 meters of my face with a tweezers I swear I'll place a restraining order on you."

"You're no fun!"

"Buzz off!"

"Come on. It's going to take another glass of champagne to get me through staring at those bushy behemoths any longer."

"I said you don't have to stare at my face," Arthur replied, a pink tinge spreading across his cheeks. Anxiety bubbled up in his torso, a feeling that he was sinning, or going to sin, and evil whispers began to weave their way into his ears.

"Oh, Arthur..." Francis began coyly, leaning forward a little despite himself.

Unease crept through his stomach, and he tensed the muscles in his arms, pulling them tighter across his chest. This whole situation…he just felt uncomfortable, and in certain…other areas, too. One whisper stood out in particular, urging him on.

No, he thought to himself, this wasn't right. He should leave. He would leave.

He stood up abruptly. "It's almost 3:30. I should go pick up the boys."

Francis clicked his tongue, running a finger around the rim of his glass. It made a spooky, unsettling sound that rang through the living room, like the cry of a ghost. "Alright then."

Arthur walked over to the entryway, and, realized he was still carrying his mug, set it down on the bureau pushed against the wall, stacked high with a mess of miscellaneous keys and notes. He slid his feet into his shoes, grabbed his wallet off the bureau, and tucked it into his pocket. He knew Francis was watching him leave from the living room. It felt like his eyes were boring into his back. Arthur could feel his face getting hotter and hurriedly pulled open the door, escaping out into the hallway where he could breathe again. Before he tugged it closed, he muttered a good-bye.

"Salut."

Francis smiled, and would have replied, but the door had already clicked shut.

Basch was sitting on the couch again, arguing with Roderich about something. Probably chocolate, or the economy, or something like that. Gilbert didn't really care.

He walked over to the corner of their living room, by the great big window, where Gilbird's cage was. He dragged his feet a little. Man, was he tired. There was probably a chair nearby, but he didn't feel like pulling it up. There was a book in his hand; he tucked it under his arm and awkwardly tried to open the cage. After a few moments of cautious deliberation, Gilbird hopped onto his outstretched finger. Gil closed the cage with his free hand and removed his book from his armpit, sitting down on the floor and crossing his legs. He leaned against the wall and flipped to the bookmark, holding the page in place with his elbow while he dipped his hand into the birdseed bag by the cage. Cupping his fingers, he brought his other hand close so Gilbird could have a snack as he read.

Sunlight was dancing across the furniture in the living room. Leaves distorted the sunbeams that fell through the window, and dust particles floated through the air. The sounds of the city were ever present outside, but after years of living in London, they had become nothing more than white noise. On this serene Sunday afternoon, color and sound seemed to blend perfectly, making everything else—the future, the past—seem insignificant compared to now. If he could live in this present, this peaceful moment in time, forever, he would without a second thought.

After a few minutes, Basch and Roderich had quieted down a little, but it didn't really matter. Their chatter was still blurry background noise as Gil focused on his book. Gilbird let out a small chirp. Feliciano and Ludwig must have been baking something in the kitchen again; the scent of flour and sugar wafted into the living room, and Gil took it in one deep breath through his nose.

Bad idea.

He burst out into a raucous coughing fit, violently hacking and wheezing, desperate. So, so desperate. Specks of blood landed on his shirt sleeve as he coughed and coughed and coughed into his arm, his chest rattling with each forced breath. Gilbird had fluttered off somewhere in panic, and now Roderich and Basch were rushing to his side, and Basch was yelling something in the direction of the kitchen, and then—Ludwig and Feliciano were in the living room, their forearms and apron fronts covered in flour, their eyes wide in terror, but then he realized something scarier. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. Gott im Himmel, er könnte nicht atmen, er könnte es nicht, er könnte nicht atmen. All he could do was keep coughing, try to get whatever it was out of his lungs. "Ich..ich kann's nicht…oh Go—Gott…" ["I…I can't…oh Go—God…"]

Ludwig and Roderich were at his side, rubbing his back and yelling in German, when the fit began to subside. Their faces were sideways, parallel to the floor, and that was when Gilbert realized he was doubled over and panting heavily. His messy silver hair fell into his eyes and blocked their faces as he stared at the hardwood in shock. He didn't know what else to do. How had this all happened? How long was he coughing? There was blood on his sleeve. That probably wasn't supposed to be there.

"Gilbert! GILBERT!"

Finally their yells got through to him, and slowly he curled back up, straightening out his spine and gasping, arching his back and face to the ceiling.

"Gilbert! Gott im Himmel, bist du OK? Kannst du jetzt atmen?" Ludwig. ["Gilbert! Good God, are you OK? Can you breathe now?"]

Gilbert turned his face to his brother, inhaling deeply. His chest still rattled with each breath. In between pants he said, "Ja. Ja, jetzt geht es mir gut. Phui." ["Yeah. Yeah, I'm doing good now. Phew."]

Ludwig pulled his brother into a hug, a few tears rolling down his cheeks. Roderich stared, eyes round as saucers, hand half-outstretched and unsure what to do. He was still kneeling on the floor. Feliciano looked on, horrified. Basch's face remained somber, a darkness coming over his features.

Eventually Ludwig broke the hug, still holding his brother by his shoulders, and began asking him questions. "Gilbert. War das, das erstes mal, das das...in eine weile...passiert ist?" ["Gilbert. Was this the first time this...happened...in a while?"]

Gilbert nodded.

Ludwig breathed out a long sigh of relief. "Wann war das letztes Mal, das du bei der Arzt war?" ["When was the last time you went to the doctor?]

"Emm…ein Jahr, verleicht. Ein oder zwei Jahren." ["Umm…one year, maybe. One or two years."]

"Du Scheißkopf, das ist nicht genug!" he yelled, panic in his eyes. Gilbert felt guilty. Was he the reason for that look? "Hast du dich vor heute schon schlecht gefüllt?" ["You idiot, that's not enough!" "Did you feel bad before today?"]

Gilbert took his time to say the answer. It wasn't that he didn't know. It was more that he didn't want to admit it. Ludwig still clutched his shoulders. The entire living room tensed as they waited for his reply.

"…Ja. Ein bisschen." ["…Yes. A little."]

Ludwig froze before he shook his head and pulled him back into a hug again. Basch was listening from a distance as he tried to coax Gilbird off of the china cabinet, busying himself with comparatively trivial tasks to cope with the shock. Feliciano still stood terrified and rooted to the spot, a bowl clutched tightly in his arms. "Ludwig? Ludwig, what's going on? Is Gilbert okay? Y-you know I don't speak German, please, someone tell me what's happening…" He started to cry, sniffling a little and gripping the bowl until his knuckles went white.

"Ich kann jetzt aufstehen," Gilbert said. ["I can stand up now."] Ludwig rose to his feet, pulling Gil up with him and leading him to the couch. The rest of them followed, almost mechanically.

Feliciano tugged on Ludwig's shirt. "Ludwig, please, tell me what's happening, Luddy, please, I'm scared! This doesn't have anything to do with a few years ago, right? Right?"

Ludwig turned to his boyfriend. "Gilbert was having trouble breathing now. It's okay, he's okay now. But I'm thinking we're going to visit a doctor first thing in the morning," he replied, looking over to his older brother. Gilbert stared back, empty of emotion or maybe just overwhelmed by it, with his head balanced on his hand. Roderich moved forward tentatively, and Basch, having finally given up on Gilbird, came around and gripped Roderich's forearm, watching Gilbert with a stern look on his face. Gil looked back up at everyone, morose. He liked being the center of attention, sure, but not like this. Not like this.

It was okay, though. It would be okay, right? "It's fine," he said in English, so Feliciano could stop worrying too. "I'm good now. It was just a little cough, guys, it's all okay!" He laughed, waving them away with his hand nonchalantly, but stopped himself before he could start hacking again.

One by one, faces grim, they peeled away and out of the living room. Not to do anything in particular, probably just to leave. To pretend they could forget about what just happened. Within a few minutes, his brother was the only one remaining.

"First thing tomorrow morning, we're going to the hospital. OK?" he said, his eyebrows furrowed. Gilbert hated seeing his younger brother worry. He was supposed to protect him from these sorts of things.

"…fine," he conceded, running a hand through his hair. At that, Ludwig let out another deep sigh and left the room, pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen and disappearing inside, probably to comfort Feliciano. It felt like he was rubbing it in his face, almost, that he could let out nice long sighs like that. It wasn't fair.

He considered texting Francis, or Antonio. Maybe they could help him take his mind off of things. But he chose to sink back into the memories instead, of cigarette smoke and harsh fluorescent lights and beeping machines and white uniforms, endless corridors and countless turns and nothing but white, just plain, stark white, everywhere. From atop the cabinet, Gilbird began to tweet and sing a feeble birdsong, but gave up after the first few notes and resigned himself to quiet.

Finally the living room was silent again, but in all the wrong ways.

* In Fahrenheit that's about 82 degrees.

** ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

*** I should probably let you know that this isn't a real word. But Shakespeare made up his own words, and now millions of high school students are forced to memorize them for vocabulary quizzes. If that's not inspiring I don't know what is.

Screw France, I'm the one who needs a calendar.

Speaking of calendars-I'm thinking I'm going to ditch the schedule. I'm still looking to get chapters up about once every 1-2 weeks, but this way I'll be able to edit my writing and make sure I've included everything I want (foreshadowing and whatnot) without feeling rushed. Plus, now I can work on other stories without a guilty conscience. (Ludwig's Daycare has grown to over 6000 words-and it's barely halfway done.)

Also-I'm most likely going to rewrite Chapter 9. I read it over at a time when I was a little more sane, and it was awful, to say the least.

About this chapter-I'm genuinely happy with it! Although I feel like I'm going to tear my own heart out writing this story. ;_;

In other news, I read Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart earlier this week, went through a 22-hour long ethical crisis about the nature of human beings and the glory and pain of war, discovered my new favorite song is Heaven Knows by Five for Fighting, and developed an obsession with planes. (Mustangs, to be specific.)

As always-reviews are always appreciated, and thank you all for reading! (And sticking with me through this mess. I can't thank you enough, to be honest.)