DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

BIRDSONG


ELEVEN

MATTHEW

Hey, Mattie?" Al pondered. He was sitting beside Matt on a rock-wall in the garden, kicking his legs. "When you and Francis had sex the first time, did your magic go kind of haywire?"

Matt resisted the urge to punch his brother. Instead he clenched the wall with white-knuckled hands, leaving frost prints. "Al, I'm really not in the mood for this right now." Al cocked his blonde head, shining like a lion's mane in the afternoon sunlight, and playfully shifted closer. He opened his mouth, but Matt interrupted: "If you want to know so badly how it feels then why don't you just go and fuck Arthur?" he snapped. He said it irrationally, but Al's reaction made him stop and reconsider. He was expecting an immediate denial from Al, but instead the blue-eyed boy leant forward and bit his cheek to keep from grinning. Matt blinked at him. "Oh my God, you already did."

"Yeah—twice," Al said giddily. "That was my way of telling you."

Matt sighed. "Why?"

"Because, as it so happens, I'm in love with him."

"Oh, God," Matt groaned moodily. "If I have to hear another love confession, I'm going to scream. What is it with these people? Do they put something in the water in this place?"

Al cocked an eyebrow. "Mattie, you okay? Did something happen between you and Francis?"

"NO."

After apologizing to Al, who merely blinked in confusion, Matt stood up. "I'm just going to go for a walk." He climbed the mountain path, glad for the chance to be alone for the first time in months. The Birdcage, though vast, was so crowded that it was hard to find a place to be alone. He hiked to the mountain peak and walked out onto the wooden platform, letting the wind toss his curls. It was stronger here then on the ground and drowned out the sounds of training from below. Matt lifted his face and closed his eyes. He had never felt homesick before. His home in North America had been an isolated place, just he and Al. He had never thought he would miss it, but now I'll never see it again. He clenched his fists, wondering, not for the first time: Why did this happen to me? Why me? Maybe if he had of met Francis under different circumstances he would be more certain about his feelings for the Frenchman. Maybe he would feel as strongly for him as Al apparently did for Arthur. I wish that I had met Francis elsewhere. I wish this wasn't so forced. He sighed in self-pity. He sat down and hugged his knees to his chest, resting his chin on his arms.

"I wasn't expecting to find anyone here."

Matt looked up in surprise. "Oh, Bjørn."

The pale-eyed Norwegian was standing behind him, his hair whipping in the wind, except for what was held back by a shiny gold hairpin. "I'm sorry, I'll go." Matt started to rise, avoiding Bjørn's unblinking gaze. The other Magi was average-height and slender like Matt, but his presence was glacial. His Magnus might have been a big, strong man, but Bjørn's coldness was more intimidating than Mikkel's fists. Matt walked quickly past him, but stopped when Bjørn said:

"It's hard to get close to someone when there's ice in your blood."

"Pardon?"

Bjørn glanced back at him and a knowing smile ghosted over his lips. "You're good a hiding your emotions, Matt, but the magic doesn't lie, especially not after a successful bonding." He gestured to the bench and Matt sat down beside him, curious. "You're young," Bjørn said sagely.

"You can't be that much older than I am," Matt countered. Bjørn's unlined face was fair and youthful.

"I'm twenty-five," he said, surprising Matt. "So is Mick. We've been bonded for twelve years and we've been sold to buyers twice. Did you know that?" Dumbfounded, Matt shook his head. In reply, Bjørn pushed the pale hair off the back of his neck and leant in closer, revealing—a tattoo? Matt frowned. Then his eyes grew wide in realization. It's a brand. He could see the geometric indent where the Doctor's sigil had been forcibly pressed into the Norwegian's white skin. It was charcoal-black and shaped like a warped Celtic knot; the same symbol that adored the Birdcage's iron gate. "It's like a packing-stamp," Bjørn said tonelessly. "An trademark to remind the buyer where his product came from. Mick has it too.

"The first time," he narrated, "we were bought to be soldiers. The second time, assassins. It wasn't as horrible as you might think. We had a lot more freedom there then we do here. We went a lot of places; we saw a lot of things. I suppose we're lucky we survived. These are dangerous times, you know, and it wasn't long before we had outlived both of our patrons. When that happens the Doctor's men bring you back here. The second time it happened, Mick wanted to run away. He wanted to leave before they could force us to come back, but I..." He paused; looked away. "It was in Iceland that they finally caught us, because I let sentiment guide my actions. Mick got hurt helping Sigurður escape. Sigurður is my younger brother," he clarified. "Then the Doctor's men drugged he and I and brought us back here. We spent seven months in rehabilitation," he spat the word like poison.

"I didn't know that you had a brother," Matt said gently.

"He attends prep-school in Iceland. He was only two-years-old when I was taken by the Doctor's men. The last time I saw him, he was eleven. Now he's fourteen. By the time I get out of here again, he'll be all grown up."

"Is he like you? I mean, can he use magic?" Matt asked.

"If he can, it hasn't manifested yet. I hope it never does. I don't want this for Sigurður." Bjørn indicated the Birdcage. "But I do miss him," he admitted. "I shouldn't have gone to him back then, to Iceland. It was risky and it's what got us caught, but I wanted to see him. He's the only family I have. The thing is, Mick didn't argue with me. He didn't even try to convince me not to go, not that it would've changed anything. My mind was set. I told him he didn't have to come with me. We were free, after all, for however short a time. We didn't have to be together as Magnus and Magi, but he didn't listen. He followed me and it cost him a great deal of pain. But if it wasn't for him, Sigurður would have been captured with us. Sometimes the Doctor's men do that. They'll take the blood-relatives of magic-users in the hope that they'll develop powers. If not, they keep them here for... spare parts." Bjørn's impassive face changed ever so slightly, showing signs of ire.

Matt's face twisted in horror. Meekly, he said: "I'm sorry."

"You have a habit of apologizing for things that aren't your fault, Matt, or things which you have no control over," Bjørn replied. "I appreciate the sentiment, but it's unnecessary. Mick and Sigurður are both alive and safe, no thanks to me. I know what it's like to possess ungodly amounts of power, yet to feel completely helpless. I know how hard it is to let yourself get close to someone when there's ice in your blood. It makes us appear cold and distant, but it doesn't mean we're heartless. The ice isn't a bad thing, you know. It's balance. It's beautiful and dangerous; quiet but fierce. And it's necessary. Spring's thaw wouldn't be half as lovely without winter's frost, nor would it flourish half as well. Ice is part of the cycle of rebirth. It's memory. It preserves to protect. That's how our magic works, Matt. You and I both have a Magnus who is self-destructive in his own way. They need us to take care of them as much as we need them. It was a hard lesson learned for Mick and I.

"Everyone calls me a prodigy," he said, unimpressed. "Everyone likes to joke about it, but what none of them understands is that power is coveted and it corrupts everything it touches. It's a constant battle to keep from losing yourself. Magi like you and Al and I need unshakable partners whom we can trust, otherwise our magic will consume us. During our bonding, I almost killed Mick." Bjørn paused for a split-second. If Matt hadn't been so focused on the Norwegian's narrative, he would have missed it. "They call me a prodigy because I mastered my magic at thirteen, an early age, but I didn't do it because I wanted to. I did it because I had to. It was vital that I learnt to control my magic, or risk losing Mick.

"I trust you understand that this conversation is between you and I, Matt," he noted, "which is why I don't mind telling you how much Mick means to me now. He and my brother are all I have and I love them, which is why I force myself to be honest. I'm not good at expressing myself or sharing my feelings, but as long as I don't keep secrets from myself, I know we'll be alright. You've experienced first-hand how dangerous things like fear and guilt can be—? Well, indecision is the same. It weighs you down; it feeds the chaos. That's why you can't be afraid of yourself, your magic. You don't have to share, but it's best to acknowledge your feelings for what they are. It doesn't do you any good to deny them. You can't stop feeling them, after all.

"Do you understand why I've told you all this?"

Slowly, Matt nodded. "Yes, I think so. It's just..."

He paused, fingering an errant curl anxiously as he chanced a shy glance at the twenty-five-year-old prodigy. Bjørn had always been intimidating, but he seemed much more approachable now that Matt knew a little more about him. (He wondered how many people in the Birdcage knew about Bjørn and Mikkel's past; Matt guessed few.) Mostly, however, he had nobody else to confide in. Despite their difference in heritage and demeanor, there was something comforting about Bjørn; something vaguely familiar. His eyes are the exact same colour as mine, Matt realized.

"I don't trust myself," he confessed quietly. "Everything is changing so quickly and everyone else seems to know exactly what to do. Al's adapted so well, but I'm afraid of making the wrong decision. I don't want to disappoint Francis, but everything is changing too fast. This power is overwhelming. So are these feelings. I'm trying to keep up with it all, but it's hard. I love Francis, I think. But what if I'm wrong? What if it's just the bonding that's making me feel this way? How do I know if it's real?"

"You'll know," said Bjørn reticently. "I can't explain how, but it'll hit you like an avalanche and you'll know."

"When did you—?"

Matt instantly regretted the question. He felt nosey, prying into Bjørn's personal life, which was something the stubborn Norwegian obviously disliked. He was about to retract it, when Bjørn said:

"In Iceland. Mick risked his life to follow me, protect me, and then he sacrificed himself to save us. It was reckless and foolish and the bravest thing anyone's ever done for me. I love and hate him for it. I have never been so scared in my entire life. I thought he was going to die. Then on the flight back to the Birdcage, he awoke briefly and smiled up at me. That's when I knew I loved him."

"But that was only four years ago," Matt calculated. "You said that you've been together for twelve—?"

Bjørn nodded and his lips slowly lifted in a tender smile. It touched his violet eyes, bringing life into his stoic face. It was beautiful. "Yes, that's right. It's not always love-at-first-sight, you know. That's fictional. More often than not, it takes time—sometimes a very long time—but it doesn't make it any less true when you realize it and it doesn't mean it's worth any less. It's okay that you don't love Francis right now, Matt, maybe you never will." Bjørn shrugged. "Not all Magnus-Magi relationships develop romantically, but I guarantee that if you give everything you have to your partnership, you won't regret it. You might never have romantic love, but you will have trust and loyalty and security and a friendship strong enough to last a lifetime."

Slowly, comforted by Bjørn's words, Matt smiled. "It doesn't sound so bad when you put it like that."

"No," Bjørn agreed, "it's not."


Matt and Bjørn walked in comfortable silence as they descended the mountain path, both preoccupied. The wind was blowing hard now and it threatened to knock them both over. Matt noticed that Bjørn kept his head bowed against the wind with one hand braced against his temple, protecting his gold hairpin.

"Is that from Norway?" he asked above the wind. It was shaped like a Nordic cross. "Is it from your home?"

"Yes and no," Bjørn answered. "It was a gift from Mick. The first time we were sold, we were stationed just north of Oslo. When our patron died we were sent straight back to the Birdcage, but before we left Mick bought this for me"—he tapped the hairpin—"so that, wherever I was, I would always have a little piece of home."

"That's really thoughtful," said Matt.

Bjørn didn't reply, but nor did he let go of his hairpin.

They reached the Birdcage just as the sky opened and it started pouring. It was a warm August shower that drenched the entire mountain. They retreated into the common-room, where the majority of residents were watching a football game on the television. Al was leaning against the back of the couch, laughing at Arthur, who was arguing fervently with Antonio about the players, but his smile faded when he saw Matt. He jogged over.

"Hey, Mattie." Curiously, he glanced between Matt and Bjørn. "Is everything okay? You feeling better?"

"Yes," Matt said honestly. He smiled in good-faith.

He spotted Francis sitting back on a recliner beside the couch and instead of the unease and tension that had plagued him since the bonding, he felt genuinely glad to see him. Bjørn was right. I don't have to decide if I love him right now. I don't have to force myself. As long as I'm honest with myself, I can throw away my insecurities and just let it happen naturally. I can just be with him like before. In the week before the bonding ceremony, Matt had valued Francis' friendship more than anything else. Maybe I shouldn't have kissed him on the mountaintop, he considered, but just because I'm a little uncertain about the future doesn't mean I don't care about him.

When Francis' eyes met Matt's, the boy smiled at him. For now this is enough.

"Excuse me," he said to Bjørn, who nodded, and to Al, who shrugged and stepped aside.

I'm sorry I've been so indecisive, he thought as he approached the Frenchman. But there is one thing I know for certain: I love you, Francis. Maybe not romantically—yet—but he loved Francis as a friend, as a comrade, even as a crush. I love you and I need you and I'm lucky to have you in my life.


FRANCIS

May I sit with you?" Matt asked.

Francis shifted sideways, making room for Matt on the recliner. "Of course, chéri." It was tight. Matt kicked his legs over Francis' lap and then leant against his arm, which he wrapped around the boy's back for support. He held Matt gently, unobtrusively. He didn't want to overstep his boundaries, even with the boy sitting half in his lap. You're so confusing, Mathieu. Since last night you've been avoiding my touch, yet now you want to sit with me? Not that Francis was complaining; he would take whatever intimacy Matt gave him. I just hope you're not doing this because you feel guilty, or in apology for last night. If you feel uncomfortable with me then I would rather you not force it. However, Matt's body was relaxed. His skin was even—not warm exactly, but—human.

"Who's playing?" he asked casually.

Instead of the television, Francis pointed to Arthur and Antonio. Apparently, it was an English-owned team versus a Spanish-owned one, hence the fervent debate (the other residents wisely stayed neutral).

"You'll have to explain it to me," Matt confessed, "the rules of soccer—sorry, football— kind of confuse me."

"Of course," Francis repeated in pleasant surprise.

He wasn't sure what had brought about Matt's sudden change in demeanour, but he suspected that Bjørn was behind it. The Norwegian was standing lazily beside the air-hockey table, listening as Mikkel regaled him with an animated story. He looked bored, but Francis supposed that it was an act. As if he could feel Francis' eyes watching him, Bjørn suddenly glanced at him. Merci, Francis mouthed, holding Matt. Bjørn inclined his head slightly and then looked back at lively Mikkel. Francis had been skeptical about asking for Bjørn's help, but finally he had acted on Antonio's suggestion. He had swallowed his pride and asked Bjørn to mentor Matt, which the Norwegian had been surprisingly receptive to.

"I know exactly how he's feeling," he had said cryptically, and then left.

Francis could do nothing but trust him, which—

"Why did the ref blow the whistle?" Matt asked. "Is that off-side, or a penalty? Why is number six curled-up in a ball on the ground? He didn't get hit that hard. What's happening now?"

—had been the right thing to do. Gratefully, Francis smiled.


ALFRED

I'm right! I'll prove it to you!" Arthur insisted. He gestured to the outside. "Let's have a game right now."

"It's pouring!" Antonio pointed. "Are you really so desperate to be right that you'll play football in the rain?"

"Never underestimate an Englishman's resolve about football or rain, Toni," Francis joked. He had looped his arms around Matt, who was sitting on his lap, and who laughed at the disgruntled look on Arthur's face. Al hadn't seen his brother smile so easily since before the bonding. Matt had thus far spent the majority of his time in captivity unhappy, and it relived Al to see him smiling now. "You'll talk yourself completely hoarse before changing his mind," Francis warned his foster-brother.

"You'll play, won't you, frog-eater?" asked Arthur.

Francis glanced at Matt, who nodded in encouragement. "Yes, I'll play. If only to prove you both wrong."

"If that's the case, then we're definitely playing, right Lud?" said Gilbert enthusiastically. Ludwig cracked his knuckles in anticipation:

"Yeah."

Antonio grudgingly agreed to play in the rain and two teams formed. Arthur self-proclaimed himself captain of the English team: Matt, Lars, Ludwig, Lovino, and Bjørn (who was goaded into playing by Mikkel), while Antonio's Spanish team consisted of: Al, Francis, Gilbert, Feliciano, and Mikkel. The teams were divided to keep bonded pairs from being together, which Al fussed about until he realized that he could directly go after Arthur if they were on opposing sides. They met Berwald and Tino on the ground-floor, but both politely declined ("football's not really my game," Tino said); and Roderick, who insisted that he and Eliza had work to do. It was windy and raining hard, but spirits were high as they reached the field. Al could feel the electricity in the atmosphere, which energized him. He felt adrenalin heat his veins as he stretched his limbs, facing-off against Matt. "Uh, where should I stand?" Matt asked, which prompted Arthur to move him to a less aggressive position. "Just defend the goal," he advised. The change left Al facing Arthur, which is exactly what the North American had wanted. He grinned suggestively and Arthur leant forward in reply, a competitive glint in his Lincoln-green eyes. "Ready?" Laura shouted, who had agreed to be referee. She threw the ball and the battle commenced.

Arthur sped past Al and seized control of the ball, manoeuvring it like a black-and-white blur. Al could barely keep pace with him. He ran off in pursuit, but Antonio reached Arthur first. They fought fiercely for control. It looked almost like wrestling in Al's opinion. He tried to help Antonio by blocking Arthur, but Lars' long leg stole the ball from underneath. He passed it down-field to Lovino, who sprinted to the Spanish goalpost and took a shot: Mikkel blocked it. "HA!" He made a rude gesture in victory and pitched the ball back into play. Al raced Arthur for it, but he slipped on the wet grass and they collided. "Ouch!" he hissed. In reflex, Al had grabbed his Magnus to break Arthur's fall. It was the wrong thing to do, competitively-speaking. Arthur leapt up quickly and ran off in pursuit of Francis. Francis passed the ball to Antonio, who passed it back. The control they showed was impressive. It was so well-timed that Ludwig and Lars failed to stop them. "Ah, yeah!" Al shouted as Antonio took a shot neither Matt or Bjørn could stop.

"That's a huge net!" Matt complained to Francis. Francis kissed his cheek amiably and jogged off.

The game continued, each team fighting fiercely for dominance. Mud-splattered and drenched, they hollered and tackled each other, ignoring the rules of engagement. Al lifted Arthur off his feet and swung him around in a wide circle, letting Feliciano sneak the ball away as the Englishman cursed loudly. Ludwig, however, followed Al's lead and scooped Feliciano up like a damsel. Gilbert tried to rescue the younger Italian, but Lovino blocked him.

"Al!" Gilbert shouted, passing the ball.

As Lars dove for it, Al created a circle of electricity, which hung like a halo above the ball. Lars doubled-back in surprise, narrowly escaping a shock, and Al took control.

"Hey! That's cheating!" Lovino shouted.

Al grinned as he raced down the field. He kicked sharply, aiming for the net—

—and the ball bounced off a slab of earth, raised as a shield.

Bjørn's eyes flashed competitively.

After that, a new game was born: Who can use his magick to score the most points? It became a combination melee-football game, wherein each of the five Magi tried to use his power to score goals while avoiding the effects of his Magnus' interference, who tried eagerly to stopper him. It got physical. And it was fun. It was like playing tug-of-war on a metaphysical level. Several of Magnus shouted advice to Magi that wasn't his, and Gilbert and Lars shouted advice to all of them indiscriminately, while the Magi tried to slip past their Magnus' defenses. Al found himself being chased by Arthur, whose face was flushed in determination (and frustration).

"Alfred!" he shouted, balling his hands into fists. Al could feel the fingers of his Magnus' defense, like a dam holding back a flood. But Arthur was struggling: the dam was about to burst.

Not today, Artie, Al laughed. Today the sky fizzed with electricity, currents of power undulating like ocean waves. This is literally my element. "Hey, Artie!" he yelled in challenge. "Catch!"

A lightning-bolt struck down from the sky like a spear. It couldn't hurt Arthur, whose eyes, nonetheless, went wide in shock, but it did knock him off his feet. He landed inside his own goal, caught by the net.

Al said: "Does that count?"

"You bloody, reckless git!" Arthur shouted, untangling himself. "You could've hit someone! You could've—" He stopped when he realized that everyone was laughing at him. Hard. "Oh, bloody-hell," he grumbled in surrender.

"Call it a tie?" Matt proposed. "Antonio is a goal ahead of you, Arthur, but"—he pointed to the scorch-mark Al's lightning-bolt had left—"Al decimated the ball."

"Oops," said Al, smiling unapologetically. He proffered his hand to Arthur. "Hit the target though, didn't I?"

Arthur shook his head, unable to hide a smile, and took Al's hand.


The Doctor watched the rainy field through several high-calibre monitors in his laboratory, spying on his "birdies", as Gilbert Beilschmidt put it. He would do so well with a Magi partner, he thought of the red-eyed Magnus. It's a shame that he hasn't been able to bond with anyone yet. He'll be such a waste if he fails again. Just like Arthur and Francis almost were. Hmm. He tapped his masked chin as he enlarged the monitor's picture, capturing Al's bright-eyed face. The boy was only sixteen-years-old, but already he possessed an enormous amount of raw, unchallenged power. And Arthur had trained him well. I knew he would. He nodded in satisfaction. That little English prick is a perfectionist. Arthur had already cost the Doctor six Magi: six profits. In truth, the Englishman had caused more trouble than he, alone, was worth. Alfred saved your life, you know. I'd cast you into the shadows if it weren't for that Magi.

Ghosting over the monitor's control-panel, he replayed Al's lightning display in slow-motion. "Amazing," he whispered in awe. He drew it forth so effortlessly, like a Thunder God. If only your brother was just as reckless.

On an adjacent monitor, the Doctor zeroed-in on Matt's drenched figure. You're not nearly as flashy, but you're just as powerful. Just as hungry. And—he noted the way Francis guided Matt back inside, a gentle hand on the boy's back—you're more easily controlled. More liable to take orders; less likely to rebel.

Of course, if I have you, Matthew, Alfred won't rebel either.

He could still see Al's enraged—terrified—face as he fought his kidnappers that night in North America. Not for himself, but for his twin-brother's sake. They had already injected Matt with a potent sleeping drug and secured the handcuffs to his wrists. Alfred was supposed to be just as easy; he wasn't supposed to have woken up in the middle of the abduction. Intelligence had told them that he was the less likely to wake, after all. That he was the one who slept deeply. But he had woken up and, spotting the strangers stealing Matt, he exploded like a power-surge. The night that the Doctor's men had infiltrated the twins' home, Alfred had fought like a rabid dog. It had taken two men to restrain him while a third stuck a needle into him. If the men hadn't been wearing their magic-resistant armour, they would have most certainly been fried alive. I saw it. You lit your whole bedroom on fire, little Thunder God.The Doctor smiled at the memory. Your strength is so very enchanting.

But I wonder, he mused, glancing between the monitors, if Matthew is still the one you love most, Alfred. I wonder—he saw Arthur's green eyes alight with laughter, smiling at Al—what you would sacrifice to protect him?

And you, little Snowflake. His eyes flickered to Matt. What would you give to prevent that from happening? What would you do to protect your precious brother from himself?

"Have you ever seen such powerful Magis?" he asked the shadow behind him. It stopped and recoiled, inches away from grabbing his neck. The Doctor didn't move.

The stranger's hands receded as he took a hesitant step backward. He held his fists up, aloft in defense, like a boxer. His hands were bony and chaffed raw; they were crosshatched with scar-tissue. In the absence of chains—the long, jangling metal coils that confined him—he didn't make a sound as he moved, like a ghost whose existence had been completely erased.

"They're worth a king's fortune," the Doctor continued, unperturbed by the man's dwarfing size; his crippling strength. He rapped Al's monitor with his knuckles. "I could demand any price for these two young Magi and people would pay it. People would pay generously for this kind of power. But I don't think I will." He sat thoughtfully; tapped his chin. "No," he decided. "I think I'll keep these two for myself. It's a shame I wasted so much time on Arthur and Francis." Sigh "Oh, well. I needed the Magis trained; I needed them bonded. Just like you. Only you failed," he said to the shadowed stranger. "Alfred and Matthew will be much more obedient than you. I'll make sure of it. And do you know how I'll achieve that? By testing on you, my little lab-rat.

"By the way—"

Abruptly, he turned around. The stranger retreated. His eyes were wild and sunken, pupils dilated in fear.

"—however did you break free this time, Ivan?"


ARTHUR

Hey, Artie?" said Al as he climbed into bed. He flopped down on his stomach, making the mattress surge, and folded his arms beneath a pillow. He was half-naked and freshly showered, smelling like peppermint. His body still retained heat from the steamy washroom, which wafted over Arthur as the boy's muscles relaxed. The Englishman watched a bead of water drip down the back of Al's neck as he spoke. "Matt told me something today. He said that Mikkel and Bjørn have already been sold twice to buyers. He wouldn't give me details about it, but he said they were sent back to Scandinavia. It got me thinking, you know?"

"God help us," Arthur teased.

Al frowned. "I'm being serious."

"I'm sorry." Tentatively, Arthur set his book aside and shifted to face Al. "What were you thinking, love?"

Al blushed at the easy term-of-endearment. "I was, uh... just wondering if it was normal to get sent back to your home country. Like, if we're sold, will we go to England or North America?"

"Possibly neither," Arthur answered. "It really just depends on which pair the buyer fancies most. It has little to do with nationality. Mikkel and Bjørn were chosen because the buyer was a very wealthy Norwegian tycoon. It's likely he just wanted a pair who could speak the native language. It was a coincidence they went back to Scandinavia. The second time that they were sold, it was to a Dutchman."

"Oh, I see." Alfred kicked his legs up-and-down ponderously. He looked like he wanted to ask something, but didn't know how to phrase it. Arthur waited patiently, trying to look as open-minded and approachable as possible. He wanted Al to feel comfortable asking him questions without prompting, especially now that they were bonded (and lovers). It had been Arthur's goal since Al's arrival to be as accommodating a partner as possible.

In an uncertain tone, Al finally said: "How likely is it then, that, uh... maybe..." He hugged the pillow tight. "I mean, if we're sold to someone, what are the chances that the same buyer will take Matt and Francis, too?"

Arthur's stomach twisted into a knot. He felt suddenly deflated, like a popped balloon, and realized that this was a question he did not want to answer.

Sheepishly, Al glanced at him. "Artie—?"

"Almost zero," he replied truthfully. "It's never happened before that a single buyer takes more than one pair. It's just not necessary and it's much too expensive. I suppose it might be possible with regular Magi, but..." He pursed his lips. "You and Matthew are rather exceptional, Alfred. I just don't think anyone would ever need you both," he said delicately. "And there are only a handful of people worldwide who could even afford it. You're incredibly valuable."

"So, someday Mattie and I will be separated?"

The sadness in Al's tone cut Arthur deeply. He wanted to comfort the boy, but he wouldn't lie to him. Softly, he said: "I'm so sorry, love."

It was quiet for half a minute. Then—

"Don't be," Al said, a beat too late. Breaking the tension with a determined smile, he declared: "Just because it's never happened before doesn't mean it can't happen, right? I'm not leaving this place without Matt—and you and Frenchie, too. Mattie and I have been a two-for-one deal since the day we were born. Now we're four-for-one, okay? And don't even pretend like you wouldn't miss Francis, because I know you would. He's your best-friend, Artie, and friends should stick together."

Despite the odds, Arthur laughed. "You really are the most positive person I've ever met, Alfred."

"Well," Al shrugged, mock-humble, "I kind of have to be. My Magnus is a huge pessimist."

"Oh, sod-off—mm!"

Al silenced Arthur with a delicious kiss. And as cold-logic melted against the boy's sweet-tasting lips, Arthur was charged by Al's incandescent hopefulness. It tasted like youth. It fizzed like soda-pop and filled his stomach with bubbles that tickled his sentimentality. Past and present mingled in his mind, giving birth to future hopes. He forgot about the Birdcage and everyone in it. He forgot about everything except for Al. I love you, he thought. I thought I was going to die, but you saved me, Alfred. You gave me this feeling, this new life. He sunk against Al's broad chest, pulling the boy closer. You've given me back my strength. As Al kissed him, Arthur felt the pull of something new. It was intangible, yet overwhelming. It was something he yearned for, something that had always been just out of reach.

"I love you," Al whispered against his lips. "I'll never let you go."

Yes, Arthur responded in kind. Stay with me forever, Alfred. As long as you're with me, I feel like I can take on the whole world. As long as you're with me, I'm not afraid. I don't care where we end up.

Forget everything—everyone.

As long as you're with me, I'm free.