A/N: Woah. Another update? Awesome, right? Yeah, well, there's not a lot to mention this time around (except for the fact that I thought I would have finished this story by summer's end but here comes school again and this story is only roughly half way done? Oh well.)

Once again, thanks to everyone who's following and who's favorited this story! I REALLY appreciate the support!

Oh, and one last thing- I'm totally writing a new story, gonna upload the first chapter today. It's about 2P! Prussia, and some kinda crazy circumstances...

Enjoy~

Ch. 10 Eat Your Heart Out, Eliza

Through the leaves, creeped an unseen enemy, a furious, terrifying foe. His hands grazed the branches of the thick forest trees, and his breath took in the sticky humid air. The heat was almost too much to bear, but this young soul had grown more than used to the constant swelter of this lush, hellish place.

Vietnam.

Helicopters blasted the trees with thick, unnatural winds, and dogs barked and scattered the native wildlife. A pair of eyes set upon this landing, the whole grand entrance to Hell. The young man quickly swooped away, back into the blister of the jungle. The jungle, where mud devours whole men and plants tear flesh like they had teeth. Not only that, but the men native to this land were just as ferocious as their home. Suited and thriving in this place, they used it all to their advantage. They all snuck around, set traps, and waited for their foes to step into their ambushes.

And, as evening drew close, one was stepping right into this young man's trap...

Alfred swore fiercely, his dog had run off. In the most dangerous place in the entire world, as it felt, of course his dog had run off. "Jake!" He muttered angrily, snapping his fingers. The dog had caught scent of something, and had to give chase. He snapped again, hoping the dog would respond, but instead it barked excitedly. "I found something!" The animal seemed to be yelling. "Come quick, you need to see!"

Glancing back at his base, Alfred shook his head. The boys waved him on, go get your dog! You'll need him! At least the dog was close, Alfred sighed. He peered around once last time, then headed off, trying to be as quiet as possible, as quick too.

And it didn't take him long to find the dog. Only about five minutes of trailing the dog's barks, pushing past overgrown flora, praying to God that you didn't just hear a tiger or some shit, and there the mutt was, standing like he was doing something greater than all else had before him. "Jake!" Alfred hissed. "Get over 'ere!" The dog ignored him, taking off from his spot again. Alfred sighed, deciding this time to run after the dog. He'd get him much faster if he didn't...

Fall...

Into a trap...

A spiked pit.

Alfred nearly bit his tongue off, chin slamming against the edge of the pit. His hands scrambled over the ledge, just barely finding a purchase to hold onto before he slipped to his death. His boots scrambled against the wall, kicking him higher and higher in desperation. One last kick, and a bit back scream as the dirt began to crumble beneath him, and Alfred was free. "Fuck the dog," he panted. "Fuck this," Laying on his back, breath quick and panicked, Alfred took a few seconds, looking to the stars.

And just barely avoid the machete aimed at his head. Alfred rolled to the side, observing the weapon that just missed a direct hit to his face. It was lodged in the dirt, and just ahead of it... Someone Alfred never wanted to meet in a quickly darkening forest. Mud and dirt was smeared across this man's skin, making him far less noticeable against the other dark colors of the forest. Even his hair was caked with mud. But his piercing violet eyes were not hidden in the slightest, and it nearly took Alfred's breath away.

The man lunged forwards, snatching up his machete with a practiced hand. He sunk the weapon into a tree trunk use where Alfred had been standing seconds before, and jerked it out with a sinister squeal of metal. Alfred had wide eyes, and his hand flew to his side, trying to retrieve his gun from its holster. But in the time it took for him to uselessly fiddle with his weapon, the machete had been dragged across his face, knocking him backwards, into the dirt.

Dazed, it was all Alfred could do to look up at his attacker, who stood over him with a grin. "You made a mistake coming here, stupid American."

Alfred returned the grin, raising his gun. "You made a mistake fucking with a guy with a gun! Especially an American!"

...

"And then, BLAM!" Alfred exclaimed. "I blew your head clean off!" His shit faced grin gave me the inclination to dare Alfred to do just that- I'd like to see him try. He looked far too soft to be able to win a fight against me... Mind my boastfulness, but I can assure anyone that I've dealt my fair share of ass-kickings, and suffered them too.

"Did you now?" I asked, surely looking unimpressed. "And what happened to the little kids running around in Vietnam? I was promised baby wars, you know."

Alfred shrugged, still grinning. "Bah, I tossed that idea! I'm not as gruesome as you. Imagine that, a baby me blowing a baby you's head off with a pistol! Pfft, ridiculous. If that's your idea of writing, you'd make a sucky author."

There we have it, folks. My writing career, shattered, with one sentence. Damn that man.

...

Music. The soothing sound of melody, intertwined with a harmony that forms a craft so unique and inspiring to us as people that... It influences nearly everything... Can be found almost anywhere... (For an example of a place it cannot be found, see the vacuum of space)

I am proud to admit that I was a musician at one point. Ashamed to admit that I had to leave it behind. Every time the strums of my beloved trade pass over my ear, I become a haunted, lost, starving man. I can feel my one hand slide down the neck of the instrument, the other gently tugging at the strings, strumming them one at a time, two, three, generating my own songs and flow... Something that no other living person has ever heard.

It fills me with an incredible passion, what can I say? Even now, lacking any instrument at all, I can still feel the bow digging deep into the strings, ripping forth a rugged, delicate noise that no other stringed instrument could hope to replicate... The bass.

Contrabass.

Bass-fiddle.

Double bass.

What have you, it's a violin that ate too many vegetables and now look what happened to it! Gargantuan! Additionally, all the strings were reversed! And who in their right mind would even imagine holding the thing with their shoulders, their chins? Only a fool would ever dream of such a thing.

I would bet a dollar that some fool is dreaming of that right now. He's not me, but he's someone. How do I know this fool is not me? Because I know that basses and violins have entirely different body shapes; violins have semi-circles at the base of the neck, while basses dip inwards.

No, I merely yearn for the strum and kick of the instrument I do so adore. One that is so harshly overlooked at that, ha! But, when one such wooden marvel steps up to center stage, takes a bow before the judges, then performs a violin solo at normal pitch, what happens? Oh, a great roar of amazement, and look how funny that instrument appears! What a wacky thing that is, and God, what else can you do on that thing?! Promises of a greater tomorrow, of what could be, of what never actually happens.

Basses can do whatever they like, but the lime light will never be theirs, not really, anyway. There will always be a singer, a saxophone, a violin or a cello, to somehow cloak this mighty instrument in their small shadow. And that's the life we live, as players of this instrument, the life that I chose willingly... Perhaps I drew a strong connection with the beauty because of that reason, that almost outcast feeling.

And how odd of an outcast we are... The orchestra sounds outright hollow when there are no supporting undertones.

It's funny, really... My mother hated the instrument I chose. She snapped at me, hissing and bitching that I picked the most expensive instrument possible!

I quickly retorted that no, if I wanted to pick a really expensive instrument, I would've gone to band.

... Long story short, I ended up not having a bass of my own, until a few years after actually picking up the instrument for the first time. I had to pay for it myself, and being on fifteen at the time, and jobless, one might wonder how?

Momma certainly didn't get any pocket change out for me. Oh no, I made the easiest decision of my entire life that day: I had money that was being saved to get me a car, and instead of driving such a car to school, apparently I was going to be driving this wooden thing to school instead. Worked out about as well as it may come off as, my mother was absolutely enraged. I blew a good seven grand on that instrument, and what the fuck will it do for me?

Well, mother, perhaps it will soothe my teenage angst, constantly resurfacing daddy issues, and pent up, reasonless rage? Just a guess on my part...

I practiced everyday. Or, everyday that I could. Sometimes I took breaks to rest my mind and my hands... It's a very involved thing, regardless of how it looks. And I swore to myself, I would play a solo for my mother at one of those rinky dinky school concerts something that would change her mind about my instrument...

Basically, I imagined she interpreted the poor thing as the fat idiot of the orchestra, and I mean the fat idiots from cartoons who end up hitting their Pa over the head with a mallet, then getting whapped themselves, only to apologize and get hit again. Kind of offensive, I thought.

So, what solo did I pick? I had so many choices, so many wonderful options to go for... The bass might look large and clunky, but I swear, in the right hands, it is the most versatile instrument a person could have.

But I ramble. It was a trick question, actually, I didn't pick a solo at all. I picked a cello concerto... Vivaldi's Allegro in G minor, for two cellos. A fast paced and rigorous adventure that features a duet, and a supporting orchestra. My partner was a long time friend, I've mentioned her before, though briefly... A stunning cello player, if anything at all. Just the kind that makes you almost want to dive across the border, into the dark side, leaving your own instrument to rot.

As tempting as that was, I refused. The bass was a perfect fit for me, and always will be. My body is simply well suited for it, what with my larger figure and whatnot.

Now, you must be dying to know how the concert went! Bah, I bet my mother swooned over the glorious swooping tones of the bass melting with the delightful chords of the cello!

... Not quite. I'm sure she would've, though.

My friend and I, we worked on that duet with a small group of people who desperately believed they had talent just like we did, and we worked for a year and a half on that piece. By the time that the concert rolled around, we were so far beyond the level of playing it took for us to play Vivaldi's Allegro in G Minor for Two Cellos, that...

It never happened.

The concert never occurred. My mother never heard a note of that duet. I dropped my instrument, ditched any hope of talent I ever had, left it all behind.

Perhaps... Basses, myself, we are meant to stay in the shadow.

...

Alfred is a liar, I know this to be true.

His tale told, enlightening my drunken ears, sounded riveting, alive with the words he used. He was into it, so into his story, with such a convicted expression you would imagine he was talking about the scorn committed on his father, how he must seek revenge.

But I know he's a liar, a good, practiced one. I also know that he definitely has a writer's wit and pace of thought. When he gets serious with his words, it's genuinely impressive.

So with these talents, and a precise choice of timing (he stated that he wanted me drunk, but little did he know that I wasn't nearly intoxicated enough to forget such a story), he created a false tale about his past. And why? All for what?

I believe there are a couple reasons: He wants the truth of his past hidden well. Or, perhaps, he wants my sympathy.

I can understand the first one, but the second? If that is his goal, it has fallen out, because of my discovery.

Now, before I go on, allow me to explain how I know he is a liar. It's quite simple, really.

First off, I've seen the sex trade that rules the dark corners of Atlanta. It's one of the hazards of living here, and the most revolting practice modern man perpetrates. I would never become involved with it... Only the desperate, disgusting, and perverted people do. Alfred is none of these, so how exactly would he have gotten into it? He also mentioned that he was fifteen at the time, and I know that no fifteen year old would just be allowed to run with the traders... Not for long, anyway, he would've become a slave himself at that age.

It just doesn't add up.

I've been thinking over this for a little over a month now, and it just doesn't add up.

Another point that backs my liar theory: Alfred lied to my face today.

He claimed not to know a man, but it was clear that that man knew him. And this fact only makes things more confusing, because if Alfred is who I think he is, he has no right knowing Francis.

...

Francis. Oh, Francis. I've only met him a select few times (perhaps because the only reason I know him in the first place is because he is Gilbert's friend). He's respectable enough, I suppose. He, at the very least, knows how to care for his hair.

Here's what makes him a truly interesting man, however: He used to be a meth head (or was he a crack addict? I can't remember which).

As far as I know, he just got in with the wrong crew from the very start, and things just kept getting worse and worse, until his family cut him off entirely, and forced him to go to rehab. The poor guy spent a few years there...

When he got out, he only kept a few friends from his past life, one of which was Gilbert. He got married, saved up enough for a good house, and as far as I know he was planning on having kids. Unfortunately, his wife died in a car accident, leaving Francis a bit stranded.

Francis' family relations have gotten better, I can tell, because I remember the first time I met the guy. He was a complete mess, an absolute wreck. Everyone thought he would turn back to drugs, but Francis turned himself around and shocked everyone. He got back with his family, and now he babysits for his sisters on weekends from time to time.

His story is an odd one, I'll give him that. But what's even weirder, is that when Gilbert and Eliza managed to convince Alfred (who then convinced me) to go with them on a trip to his house, I could see the recognition in Francis' eyes. The way he tried to hide his excitement at someone familiar returning after a bout of being long gone. I know the look, I recognized it.

And though I feel like I should confront Alfred on his lies, and demand the truth, I also feel something tranquil about letting this one slide...

The reason we were visiting Francis is fairly straight forward: He wanted Gilbert to come help him set up his pool for the approaching summer months (Francis has this small below ground pool... It's for his cousins, and for the Nazi that drops by without warning every so often, I've been told). The extra set of hands (Francis refused to let me or Eliza help out) outside in the already burning heat was much appreciated as far as I could tell. They were outside, and I was inside, enjoying the soft colors of abstract paintings and the odd shapes of some weird modern art that decorated the main room.

Eliza merely leaned back in a chair, enjoying the tranquility and silence while it lasted. Which I find odd, she equally enjoys the chaos and the quiet.

Just as I was about to drift into a state of utter contentedness, an unexpected voice broke through my serenity. "You like him, don't you?"

My eyelids slowly parted, to reveal my scrutinizing gaze. I turned to stare at Elizaveta, who's face was plastered with a smirk.

'Shit,' I thought. 'She thinks she's got me, that's not good.'

"I knew it." She puffed her chest out proudly, leaning back again without the slightest let up of that damned smirk... It's identical to Gilbert's, I now realize.

"Knew what?" I scoffed, narrowing my eyes.

"It!" Eliza declared, snapping right back at me as though she had never entered that relaxed state at all. "He's cute, you know, I think you got lucky."

I felt a tremendous sigh shake my chest. "Eliza, I beg your pardon-"

"You're not denying it!" She cheered, and my mouth fell open a tad. I didn't have a response to that. Mostly because I already knew that denying these kinds of accusations did nothing but solidify the other's argument, for some odd reason.

With nothing more than a grunt, I decidedly turned to face the other direction. Perhaps avoiding this woman would bring success...?

No, it did not. I felt her hands dip through my hair, and before I could protest, she had already begun to braid together my long locks.

"Oh come off it, Ivan! Ever since I've known you, all you do is pretend to dislike nearly everyone. Now this one random guy just shows up, and you willingly allow him to live in your house? Sleep in your bed? Without so much as a genuine protest? You cant throwing me off, Ivan. Try as much as you like, I've seen it all before."

'Shit,' I thought. 'She's got me.'

"And, you're going to love this, I've seen it in Gilbert, no less. That man nearly had me convinced of his complete indifference towards me- or so he thought. You should've seen him melt when I first asked him on a date. It was adorable. And then, with our first-"

"Alright!" I cleared my throat, cutting Eliza off. "I've-! I've heard enough, thank you..."

Eliza chuckled, and went on. Only this time, gentler, more sincere. "At least make a friend, Ivan. I'm sick of seeing you alone all the time. Do something nice with him."

After a few moments of hesitation, I managed to murmur, "Like what?"

Hands finishing off the braid, Eliza pulled back, eyes bright with humor. "Whatever you'd like, Ivan."

From outside, we both heard splashing, yelling, general rough and playful behavior... And then, we were stormed by two hooligans, with an amusing chorus of a distraught French man yelling for both to get their soaking asses out of his house.

But just before the two shoved each other out, Alfred glanced over at me. "Woah," he cocked his head to the side, a curious grin on his lips. "Eliza braided your hair?" Snorting, he wasn't quite ready for Gilbert to nab him in a headlock, and drag him back out the door.

Turning to look back at Eliza, I gave her a somewhat tired expression. She shrugged, and said, "You can't hate 'em, so you gotta love 'em, right?"

...

Goddamnit, Eliza.