GUYS, WHERE IS THE HETALIA FANDOM? IT FEELS LIKE IT VANISHED SINCE THE BLOODBATH. :c

Anyway, terribly sorry for the long wait! Life has been RIDICULOUSLY BUSY (not even exaggerating) and this is the busiest time of the year! I'm sorry everyone!

This chapter makes me want to gouge my eyes out, but I'm uploading anyway for all you kind folk. If you're still here, thank you so much for sticking with me! *kisses*

The trip back to the house was the most uncomfortable fucking thing William had ever experienced in his life.

And that included the awkward bonding time with Alfred during the whole excursion and ordeal, and even topped yesterday's embarrassingly sappy heart to heart man talk with Connor.

He looked back uneasily to his brothers, who were hilariously sharing a horse due to congeniality and consideration towards their new guests. In any other situation, William would have laughed until he turned blue. In effort to ease the suspicious Frenchman's nerves and distrust, he had generously offered Connor's horse as ways of transportation back to their humble home. (Said Irishman had been rightly outraged and did not hesitant in the least at tackling Rhys off his horse as soon as him came to the station.

"Hey, hey! What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

"Oh belt up and shove off!"

"W-what are you do—WRAHHHH—!")

It was pretty damn hilarious in Will's opinion and he almost burst into laughter had not the Frenchmen behind him raised a brow unamusedly. The boy—Matthew?—also seemed largely unaffected by the scene, but Will figured it was just the apprehension upon hearing news of his brother. The ground was still moist, making it slow for travel, so William just prayed the Frenchman's patience lasted until they reached home.

"Will you two shut up?" William hissed at Connor and Rhys's incessant hushed arguments, after the humor died down. His eyes nervously flickered towards their guests, who were trotting along next to them with considerable space between. They clearly did not trust them (perfectly understandab when one looked at the difference in their clothes. From what he could judge, it was clearly an upperclass Frenchman with his son/brother in similar dress. Will was beginning to feel even more self conscious about his clothes, and he never thought about it before). "Do any of you remember any French? He looks like he's about to bolt any minute. Let's keep him talkin' so he'll relax."

"So you really think whisperin' to us is gonna make him feel better?" Connor retorted. "It probably makes us look like thieves even more! He probably thinks we're gonna jump him any minute!"

William blinked, then hissed back, "My point exactly!"

Rhys finally whispered back, "Shut up! I got this, fortunately I haven't forgotten much." Navigating his horse closer to their guests (with Connor sitting behind him gripping the back of the saddle looking absolutely murderous to Will's good humor), he politely asked the other man something in French.

"Him and his flowery French shit," Connor mocked, whispering it to Will, who snickered in response. A sharp jab to the gut elicited a pained grunt from him, and Rhys continued with his conversation.

The conversation continued for a good while, and successfully the Frenchman looked considerably less tense. He was still cautious, but not so overly suspicious.

"What did he say?" William prepped in a hushed tone. He only picked up bits and pieces of the conversation, but he wanted to clarify.

"His name is Francis Bonnefoy, and the lot down at the station misplaced his bags. He's here visiting with a friend who hasn't yet arrived," Rhys relayed.

"The conversation lasted a lot longer than that," Connor commented. "What the hell else were you asking him?"

"I just asked him about some small villages in France, and commented on how pretty the country is, and how I've read some French literature before. He is especially fond of the works written by Voltaire and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, though that's not surprising."

"You actually paid attention to all that barmey mum taught us?" Connor asked incredulously. "No bleedin' way!"

Will rolled his eyes. "Rhys has always been an avid reader, like Arthur, only he reads literature from other countries too. You know this, Connor," he said, sounding bored.

"Yeah," Connor replied, still looking dubious. "But who would've known knowing all that French rubbish would actually benefit in the future? Looks to me like Rhys is a top notch kiss arse—"

He was immediately cut off as an elbow jabbed sharply into his chest, catching him by surprise and efficiently knocking the air out of him, and he all but fell off the horse and flat on his back into a soft pile of mud. He groaned.

William barked in laughter and the group continued on.

"Looks to me like you're the arse now!"

The Frenchman held tightly onto the reigns of the horse, and glanced around warily over the head of the small child. They had been riding for a while now, and while the British man had spoken to him in his native tongue, it did only little to ease his nerves.

This was not an ideal situation. Francis Bonnefoy would never have guessed two nights ago he'd be where he was now. His Spanish friend, Antonio Hernandez Carriedo, had followed their Belgian friend faithfully up to Britain to visit her new fiancé. Francis knew dully in the back of his head that Antonio had feelings for the woman (he had introduced them to each other after all, as she was a dear friend of his too) and it was only an unfortunate happening that she fell in love with someone else.

So when Antonio had found out she would be in Britain for some time, he opted to follow hopefully in some mind that she'd fall for him. Of course when he looked to Francis so expectantly, he had no choice but to agree, and followed the Spaniard for the second time into Britain. Francis knew it was in vain, but as much as he tried to tell his Spanish friend, he seemed oblivious to reality and continued his positive, hopeful attitude at winning the woman's heart. It almost physically hurt Francis to think about the amount of heartbreak his dear friend would have to suffer before moving on. He then had taken Matthew as well to accompany him, as Francis Bonnefoy had no other relatives to look after the newly adopted boy.

(It would have been a bad idea anyhow to continuously move the child from one strange face to another; Francis could relate well to the mind and behavior of a young child and instinctively knew that consistency was key. It pleased him even more that Matthew had picked up on French so fast, and even seemed to grow fond of him as well. He was a shy little thing, quiet and a bit of a crybaby, but Francis had only found it more endearing. Holding the boy in his arms made him truly feel like the guardian he was never fortunate to have.)

The British men were strange, and it was quite obvious even to Francis's eyes that they were brothers both in appearance and personality. By the looks of their clothes they weren't so well off either, and it was a nagging worry in the back of Francis's mind that he and Matthew were not being led to some big gypsy camp where they would be mugged. Gypsy camps had sprung up nearly everywhere in Continental Europe, and frankly the Frenchman wouldn't be surprised if Britain had their fair share either. The thought of it made Francis's heart pound and his hand pulled Matthew tighter to him involuntarily.

The small boy peered up at the Frenchman with blue owlish eyes questioningly. All the child's worries and hopes and fears seemed to be on display on his expression.

"Are you sure about this, my dear?" He murmured quietly in French.

The boy nodded silently, and cast his eyes downward. Francis sighed, and patted the boy's head comfortingly. They could hope for the best, but they could expect nothing. Francis wasn't sure what they'd do if it turned out to be a hoax.

Thankfully, a house appeared in sight and Francis's fears of a gypsy pack were immediately dimmed. They came this far into foreign territory unscathed, they might as well finish the journey.

The brothers brought the horses to the stables, where the Britons jumped off the horses and put them away, while Francis and Matthew stood waiting. A small hand slipped into Francis's, and he squeezed it comfortingly as the boy clung to his side.

"This way," William's thick Scottish accent directed.

The group of men entered the house, trailed only by the two guests. Upon entering, it was everything Francis expected; a simple middleclass house on the outskirts of a big city. It was a bit dirty and smelled a bit musty, but it was homely to say at the very least. However, the well-to-do wealthy Frenchman couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at it, raising a brow distastefully at the dirt and general glum atmosphere.

A clatter and clang echoed from the kitchen, followed by an old woman's light scolding. The group moved to the kitchen to find a pale Arthur with a blanket around his shoulders attempting to cook a pot of, well, a pot of something. William wrinkled his nose.

"The hell were you tryin' to make this time?" He questioned, staring suspiciously at his brother.

"Soup," Arthur responded stiffly, and his eyes flashed daringly at his brother, almost waiting for a comment. When none came, he sniffed and continued, "I almost had it too, but we didn't have enough spices."

Judging by the thick smell of burnt cooking in the air, William seriously doubted the lack of spices were to make of the smell, but didn't say anything. Arthur was really beginning to look sick, with his pale complexion and red eyes and nose. He looked tired.

Apparently that didn't stop Connor from commenting. "I don't think it's a real good idea for a sick person to cook."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Thank you for the input, Connor," he deadpanned. His voice sounded a tad nasally. "Did you lot find anything? You were gone for a while, did you find a doctor? It seems—" He immediately trailed off as he noticed the stranger stranding stiffly in the hall. He was about to continue talking until he noticed the small child step from behind the stranger timidly. Arthur gasped, staring open-mouthed at the child speechlessly.

"Arthur," Rhys stepped in. He gestured to the stranger. "This is Francis Bonnefoy. He is visiting from France, and he doesn't speak much English it seems. We spotted him at the station and found that Matthew," he gestured to the child, "wants to see if we have his brother."

Arthur stared at Matthew in disbelief. He paused for several moments, trying to form words. Instead he swallowed nervously, and his heart constricted as he glanced back and forth between the Frenchman and the child. They looked painstakingly alike, and even more astonishing was the resemblance between Alfred and Matthew. If Arthur hadn't known better, he would have easily mistaken the two. "I, um, right." He stuttered warily. "Right this way." He led them to the hallway with silent footsteps.

The atmosphere seemed to still as everyone followed apprehensively. Matthew had tightened his grip on Francis's hand, shaking ever so slightly, and Arthur wordlessly gripped the doorknob with his lips pursed. He didn't understand why he was so hesitant, but the atmosphere felt strange and unfamiliar. Connor and William looked at each other, and Mrs. Kirkland placed her hands on Rhy's shoulder, watching anxiously.

"He's caught a nasty cold, so it'd probably be best if you didn't come too close to him," Arthur prepped nervously. "He's been resting." He opened the door slowly, and everyone peered inside.

Alfred layed on the bed, tucked in a tight bundle of sheets and quilts, curled up on his side sleeping. It didn't take even a full minute for Matthew to recognize him.

"Alfred!" The boy cried out, and jumped from Francis's side to the bed. The Frenchman yelped in protest and make a quick attempt to stop him, but narrowly missed grabbing the child. He stopped as he took a good look at the two.

The two boys were nearly the same in appearance, with only subtle differences. They both appeared the same age, and while Matthew's hair had grown longer to match his caretaker's, they were of the same color as his brother's. Despite Alfred's sickly condition, the resemblance between the two was obvious. When Matthew shook his brother awake and chanted his name (Arthur had objected to this, but William's expression stopped him from voicing it), the only immediate notable difference was the coloring of the eyes. Where Alfred had blue eyes that resembled bright sunny skies, Matthew's eyes were a darker hue, taking an almost violet quality to it.

"Alfred, Alfred!" Matthew shook Alfred's shoulder frantically, merely wanting this brother to open his eyes. The young boy's eyes began to water, and he didn't try to cover up his tears as he began to cry.

Alfred moaned and scrunched his face distressedly before opening his eyes blearily. He rolled over, peering over his shoulder, and if the moment weren't so tense, it would have been hilarious to take note on how fast Alfred's eyes snapped open upon recognizing the face close at hand. The boy's face, though pale from illness, seemed to drain further.

"Mattie—!" The boy gasped, and he struggled to sit up, only to stop suddenly as coughs and hacks wracked his chest. He coughed harshly into his arms, and in his desperation to quit coughing, he only seemed to cough harder some more. He face turned red as he struggled to breath. Sharp gasping noises echoed throughout the room. Matthew sat next to him, crying.

"Okay, that's enough," Arthur interjected, and he broke the invisible barrier that divided the brothers from the rest of the room. He crossed to the bedside and rubbed circles in the boy's back firmly as Alfred struggled to dispose of the mucus in his lungs.

Francis immediately tugged on Matthew's shirt, pulling him back away from the two sickly people. "Mathieu, no. Don't get close to them. They are sick," He warned in French.

Matthew began to snivel and stared at his brother longingly, who also squirmed in Arthur's arms. "I want to be with him. I want my brother," He whimpered in reply, gazing unhappily with bright watery orbs at the Frenchman. Francis' face twisted in sympathy.

As the coughing subsided, Rhys finally raised his voice quietly in the room. "Why don't we sit for tea?" He proposed.

Everyone took a seat at the wooden table in the kitchen as Mrs. Kirkland prepared tea. Francis folded his hands on the table before him and twiddled his thumbs uncertainly as his eyes wandered around the room. Reluctantly, he left Matthew alone with his brother in the room despite his reasoning, seeing as Matthew had unlocked a stubborn characteristic that insisted he stay. The boy only persistently insisted and tugged on Francis' coat half-heartedly, refusing to be even dragged out of the room. Thankfully, he hadn't thrown a tantrum in front of all the strangers, but it was more than Francis had ever seen from the boy before. He was hesitant (and he still didn't like the idea), but he relented uneasily. Seeing the other boy, Alfred, in such an ill condition brought back fresh memories of how Francis came to meet Matthew.

It wasn't ideal conditions, to say at the very least.

Nonetheless, he waited patiently for his tea as he glanced at the faces around the table. They were similar, not mirror images like the boys, but it was clear they were all related. They all seemed to possess the trait of unusually thick eyebrows. It strange and almost comical to look at, but Francis had to admit it was surprisingly not unattractive. It seemed to frame each of their faces well. Gazing upon the youngest, Francis was startled to find that Arthur, he recalled, was scrutinizing him coldly.

He looked away, jutting his chin out ever so slightly, affronted.

British people were so rude.

It was silent in the room as everyone looked away from each other. Finally, Mrs. Kirkland came with the tray of tea and asked politely, "So Francis, where are you from in France?"

Rhys relayed the question. "He says he's from Paris."

"That's nice," she continued conversationally. Her French speaking skills were lost in time. "And what brings you here in Britain?"

Rhys translated.

"Mon ami et moi sommes à la recherche de quelqu'un," he replied somewhat stiffly.

"Poor bugger looks on edge," Connor whispered amusedly.

"He's probably not used to conversing with 'commoners' like us," Arthur sneered back. "Did you see the way he was eyeing our house and our clothes? How French."

Rhys rested his elbows on the table, ignoring the mocking whispers of his brothers. "He said he and his friend are looking for someone, but he seems very private about it."

"He lost his baggage at the train station, didn't he? Offer him to stay here!"

Arthur and Connor nearly spit out their tea, and Mrs. Kirkland didn't hesitate from slapping them upside the head. Arthur winced, and he swore he saw the Frenchman smirk. He looked incredulous at his mother.

"Seeing as Alfred and Matthew are related, it'd be cruel to separate them. Also, Francis and…Matthew…lost their bags and don't have anywhere to stay. It's only polite to offer our residence until they get settled or meet their friend for whatever it is they are doing. I'm sure Alfred would like it." She gave a pointed look to Arthur, who looked away.

Arthur couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something…boastful about the Frenchman that he didn't like. Haughty. Almost as if he thought he were a king, and everyone else was merely his servant or not worth his time.

Or maybe that was just the French.

Either way, it was irritating to be around, and Arthur had only been near the man for a short two hours at most. Couldn't they just keep the boy and kick out the man? He scowled to himself as Rhys relayed the offer in French.

Francis appeared hesitant at first, but probably regarding his current situation, accepted it.

He didn't have to look so damned pained about it, Arthur sulked.

"We're going to have to figure out sleeping arrangements," William spoke up.

The rest of the day passed agonizingly slow, with everyone shuffling around the house awkwardly in a quiet atmosphere. Mrs. Kirkland had been an incredibly welcoming hostess, offering clean clothes to both Matthew and Francis to wear for the time being. A light rain pattered on the roof, and the despondent weather was gloomier than ever as winter approached deeper towards the end of November.

The whole time, well into the night, Matthew remained at Alfred's side. The two had conversed about something or other for hours, and seemed content at merely staying in each other's presence. Matthew had cried solidly for the first hour he was finally allowed to talk to Alfred, and it was obvious Alfred was holding back tears too as both boys clung to each other.

Arthur didn't mind the reunion; it was touching and it made him grow weak at the scene, but it wasn't until he overheard a particularly conversation that confirmed his fears.

"Please," a soft voice pleaded from inside the room. It was Matthew's. "Please, Alfred." Arthur stopped mid-step in the hallway, pausing at the door. He perked at the conversation.

A hesitant reply. "I don't know Mattie…" Coughs followed.

"He's really nice," came the response, and Arthur pressed himself lightly against the door, peering through the crack . "He isn't anything like before."

Alfred shrank, frightened by whatever was implied. Arthur's hand clenched against the door, as sudden suspicions arose. Not anything like before? Had Francis been the one to hurt Alfred? Arthur gritted his teeth painfully.

"He won't hurt you," Matthew promised, and when no response came immediately, he took a desperate tone. "Please Alfred! Come with Francis and I!" A pause. "I don't want you to disappear again," came the heartbroken plea.

A silence stretched out, and Arthur's heart nearly leapt into his throat as fear and rejection twisted an ugly knot in his chest. His heart thudded painfully, and suddenly it felt as if his breathing were the loudest thing in the house as he waited for Alfred's reply. He nearly gave up until he heard Alfred's soft mumble, "But I like Arthur…"

Arthur smiled and felt his knees grow weak as hope blossomed in his chest. However, it didn't completely quell his fears. Had Francis been the one to hurt Alfred? If so, why hadn't he hurt Matthew? Did he favor Matthew over the other, causing Alfred to run away? There were more questions than answers, and the most pressing one on Arthur's mind was would Francis want to take him back?

No, Arthur though to himself as panic began to rise. He couldn't afford to let the one thing that made him happy be taken away by a possible abusive father. He knew he wasn't any good at it, but he definitely had still done a pretty good job with Alfred so far, right? Despite their current predicament, they were surviving well enough on their own until now, right? A careless mistake shouldn't be reprimanded by God so harshly, right?

Oh Lord, don't do this to me, Arthur pleaded silently to himself, clenching his eyes shut in desperate prayer. He had done a lot of stupid things in his past, but surely he could make up for it? Please, of everything I've ever asked you, don't let Alfred be taken away from me.

Especially from a potential abusive Frenchmen!

Almost as if on cue, Francis appeared in the hallway, staring at Arthur questioningly with obvious suspicion in his eyes. Arthur stepped away from the door, aware of what it looked like, and mustered up an ugly glare towards the Frenchman. Francis's expression soured in response.

"Que faites-vous?" Francis asked slowly. Arthur raised an eyebrow, aware what the Frenchman was asking, but refusing to speak the language. He stepped towards the door, but Arthur stepped in front of it guardingly.

"What are you doing?" He asked warningly.

"Que faites-vous? C'est l'heure du coucher pour Matthew." Francis replied back, growing irritated. His hand pushed the door open behind Arthur, and he had no choice but to step back or fall over.

"Matthieu, il est temps de se coucher." Francis called paternally. Matthew looked over painstakingly.

"Mais je veux rester avec Alfred, " came the soft response.

"Non, il est tard." Francis said, clapping his hands. "Vous avez besoin de dormir." He gave Matthew a stern look, who complied easily, looking downtrodden. Francis sighed. "Vous pouvez parler à Alfred demain."

Matthew looked up hopefully, and gave his confused brother one last, tight hug before departing slowly, unwilling to leave. Francis waved him over with his hand, and Matthew took it, stealing one last longing glance at Alfred.

"Goodnight, Alfred. I'll see you tomorrow!" His soft voice called, as if stating a promise. Alfred waved weakly back, struggling to suppress a cough.

Arthur eyed the door warily, involuntarily glaring at the back of the Frenchman. He slipped into bed next to Alfred, who made room for him, staring into space intensely. Arthur raised a brow.

"Are you alright, lad?" He asked uncertainly.

Alfred blinked, looking unusually awake and tired at the same time. The boy shrugged. Arthur frowned and blew out the light, and Alfred shivered as he burrowed himself under the covers.

The cold night expanded before them in the darkness, and the silence was stifling. Arthur layed still, waiting for sleep to hit, but was too distracted for his mind to relax. Sensing Alfred was still awake, he tentatively turned and broke the silence.

"Alfred?" He whispered softly.

"Yes?" The boy breathed back.

Arthur paused. "Do you like living with me?"

He felt the words before he heard them. "Yes, I like you Arthur!" Alfred murmured in agreeable response. The answer was so quick and warm sounding that Arthur felt guilty for even questioning it. He nodded, satisfied with the answer. Alfred was an honest child, affectionately so, so Arthur didn't doubt it even the slightest. Hearing it aloud made him smile though, making him feel important and wanted. His smile faded at another thought.

"Alfred," he began again, and without waiting, asked, "Do you remember your parents?" When the silence stretched on for a minute or so, he followed, "Is Francis your…father?"

Alfred paused, letting the words sink into the night. "No," He replied slowly, and coughed a hoarse sounding choke. Wheezing, his light voice continued, "I've never seen him before."

Arthur released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Relieved, he tentatively questioned, "What about your mum and dad? Do you remember them?"

Alfred remained thoughtfully quiet, though whether it was sorrowfully so, Arthur couldn't tell in the dark. He longed for some way to be comforting, but could not think of any way of displaying it. Instead, he waited anxiously.

"I don't remember my dad," Alfred whispered, and was again interrupted by violent sounding coughs, this time continuing for several minutes. Alarmed, Arthur sat the boy up to finish his coughing fit, followed by loud gasping in the still night as the boy struggled to breath the proper intake of air. Arthur winced, and they layed back down after the fit.

"Mum," Alfred croaked, his eyes watering. "I-I can't remember. I think she had pretty light brown hair. It's hard," he mumbled exhaustedly, weary from earlier's exertion.

"What happened to her?" Arthur asked gently, turning to face the small child. A heavy weight began to settle lightly over the two boys, but Arthur refused to acknowledge it as of now. There were too many questions, and they had already made progress answering them.

"I don't know," Alfred sniffed. "She was with us one day…and then she disappeared." He sniffed again, trembling.

"Oh, lad…" Arthur whispered, unsure of how to respond, and ran his fingers through the boy's hair several times. He was startled to hear a whimper elicit from next to him. Upon running his fingers across Alfred's face, he found wet tears greet his hands.

"Alfred!" Arthur exclaimed softly in alarm. He turned squarely to the boy, sitting up and leaning on his elbow. "What's wrong?" He questioned distressfully.

Alfred sniveled, and wiped his tears messily. "I-I miss my m-mom," he sobbed, curling into a ball in the bed. He struggled to silence his weeping, but instead choked on his tears instead of stopping them. "I miss her, a-and she left."

Arthur, at a loss, wrapped himself around the boy, cocooning the two of them together in a tight embrace. He couldn't make up for the loss, that much was sure, but he could be present for the boy. Strong arms held the child, and soon a pair of small arms hugged back. "Shh, be still. She didn't leave you," Arthur murmured comfortingly, but he was unsure of the truth in his words. The child shuddered.

"Angry. S-she was angry-!" Came Alfred's muffled bawls, and suddenly Arthur chillingly understood the boy's general paranoia and pleads from the previous week's misadventure.

"I'm s-sorry, Arthur, d-don't be angry!"

"P-please don't leave me! I'll be good! I'll listen!"

He had anxiety and fear of being left behind. With the disappearance of his whole family (his father gone? His mother leaving? And the separation of the brother?), he had naturally come to dread the thought of being alone and angering others. It was no wonder he was so submissive, and often gave the appearance of a kicked puppy upon Arthur's leaving for work.

He had watched Arthur leave, and expected him to not come back.

He spent hours a day by himself, waiting for a return.

He was overly affectionate, and feared the rejection of others.

It broke Arthur's heart.

"It's alright, love. I'm here, I'll always be here," Arthur murmured, and wrapped his arms around the child. It was amazing how much a simple hug could do for Alfred, Arthur had realized sometime later, but it seemed to comfort him, as if a physical shield of protection and warmth. Alfred himself had stifled his tears, and between the lull of Arthur's heartbeat and comforting back rubs, he dozed off into a heavy sleep. He trembled slightly.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair.

Some things were impossible to fix.

BLEHHH.

Sorry for any grammatical errors. I wanted to upload before I changed my mind on the length/content of the chapter. I seriously stress out over that too much. (Perfectionist? Me? Nooooo.)

Alright, until next time! Peace out!

Reviews make me want to write! /hint hint ;D My inbox gets pretty lonely guys hahaha.