Author's Note: I survived finals week! Here's a chapter to celebrate. Let me know what you think!


"No, I haven't seen him since this morning. Why? Is something wrong?"

It's ten o'clock at night when Arthur gets a call from a distraught and frantic Ludwig, asking whether or not anyone has seen his brother because he left to buy some coffee in the early evening and never returned.

Alfred is standing close enough to the phone on the wall to hear Ludwig's urgent tone on the other line as well as a quick, succinct stream of German curses that he's pretty sure Arthur wouldn't want him to parrot around the house.

"I'll call if I hear anything… Don't panic, you know how Gilbert can be sometimes."

It's a school night, which means Alfred should be heading off to sleep, but how can he possibly be expected to snooze when there's such an affair going on?

But apparently, Arthur does expect him to do the impossible because as soon as he hangs up the phone, he gives him a stern look and points a finger toward the stairs.

"Bed, now," he declares.

"What about Uncle Gil—?"

"You can let me worry about that. I'm sure he'll turn up in a little while. I'll never be able to wake you up tomorrow morning if you don't get your rest."

Alfred makes sure to show Arthur how sad and miserable he is as a result of the decision, but he climbs up the steps anyway, dragging his feet along in a show of despair. When he reaches his room, he plops into bed and rolls over onto his stomach, gazing up at the window behind the headboard. The dreary lampposts are the only source of light outside, casting shadows on the road. Everything is still and quiet, aside from the crickets having a fiesta in the grass.

He fluffs his pillow and is just about to get comfortable when his eyes latch onto the movement of a figure crossing the street. It's a person—albeit a wobbling and disoriented person. Alfred can't make out their face or what they're wearing, but he doesn't need any more information to spring into action. Within a second, he's soaring out into the hallway screaming, "Robber, robber, robber!"

He hears the sound of something being dropped in the living room, and then Arthur is at the base of the stairs, perturbed and on edge. Alfred crashes into his chest, wrapping his arms around the man's waist tightly.

Instantly, Arthur's protective hand is on his head. "Why on earth are you shrieking like a banshee?"

"Don't go outside! There's a robber," Alfred says in a harsh whisper. "This is why you should've gotten me a gun for my birthday."

Arthur lets his hand fall back to his side and rolls his eyes. "Calm down, will you? I'll have a look."

"No!"

"Shh!" Arthur hisses, carefully peeling back one of the curtains in the living room to look out the window. Sure enough, the person is still staggering and stumbling about aimlessly in the moonlight. Then, fearlessly, Arthur sweeps up to the front door and unlocks it before telling Alfred firmly, "Stay inside."

"Are you crazy? Don't go out there! You'll get hurt," Alfred beseeches, too tense to stay standing in one place for too long. He can already picture a battered and bruised Arthur hobbling his way back to the house, and the mere thought of his caretaker being in such danger makes his eyes burn. "Stay!"

"Relax, everything's going to be all right."

His stomach does a sick somersault as Arthur wanders out into the darkness, and the closer he gets to the figure, the more Alfred feels like he's going to faint from the anticipation. When he can take it no longer, he summons his brash bravery and dashes out into the darkness as well, planning to be Arthur's sidekick if need be.

Thankfully, that need never presents itself because by the time the two of them reach the mysterious figure, it becomes very clear that the person is not, in fact, any sort of criminal or fugitive. At least, not in a way that threatens anyone else.

Arthur reaches the person first and says, "Why am I not surprised you're here? Ludwig is beside himself with worry."

Under the dim light, Alfred can just make out Gilbert's light hair and broad shoulders. He is stooped over and clutching his abdomen, and before he attempts to respond to Arthur, he falls to his knees and throws himself onto his back, lying in the center of the road with his limbs spread out like a starfish.

Arthur doesn't seem amused. "What are you doing?"

Gilbert's sharp, slightly hoarse voice finally fills the air. "I'm going to wait here until a car comes and runs me over."

"Gilbert, it's the middle of the night, and we're in the very heart of the suburbs. A car isn't likely to pass through here for another eight hours."

"I'll wait eight hours, then."

Alfred tries not to laugh as Arthur lets out a frustrated growl and peels the man off of the pavement with an unrelenting yank. By some miraculous feat, Gilbert is brought to a standing position once more, but Arthur has to steady him when he almost trips over himself.

Alfred is old enough now to know what is going on here. It's quite clear that Gilbert is unequivocally, raging drunk. If a police officer happens to wander by, the man could very well be arrested, and the penalties for drinking nowadays are severe. There are, however, a few speakeasies in town that have not yet been discovered (Alfred has heard the stories from others at school), and that's where Gilbert has probably been hiding away for so many hours.

"Come on, you sodding idiot. If someone sees you like this—"

"Where's Elizabeta?" Gilbert hiccups, clawing at Arthur's sweater. "I n-need to tell her I'm sorry."

"You can tell her in the morning. I'll walk you home."

It's becoming increasingly apparent, however, that Gilbert is in no state to make the journey home like this, and so, Arthur steers him toward their house instead. After much pushing and pulling, they make it to the foyer without suffering any injuries, and Alfred watches them with growing interest, feeling a little sad for a reason he can't describe. Looking at Gilbert hurts, and it reminds him of New York—the sunken faces and bulging eyes of the workers from the textile factory and the chilling hopelessness on their faces. It reminds him how wanting something doesn't mean you'll get it, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, the boot is on your neck before you even start the race.

Arthur brings Gilbert to the couch and takes his shoes off for him, ignoring any shrill noises of complaint. Then, he tosses a quilt from the storage closet over his waist and brings the man a tall glass of water, seemingly forgetting Alfred's presence for the moment. He takes a seat on the arm of couch closest to Gilbert's head and says, "You idiot… She's just hurt and wants to forget. Give her time. You're scaring everyone. Praying a car will run you over isn't going to solve anything. Though she is loath to admit it, she wouldn't want you to injure yourself."

"Ughhh," Gilbert moans, tugging at his own hair. If he hears anything of what's being said to him, he doesn't show it.

"Don't vomit on my carpet," Arthur warns. He sticks out a leg, hooks his foot around the waste bin a half a meter or so away, and drags it over to the edge of the couch. "Kindly keep all of your body fluids in there. If you need anything during the night, I'll be upstairs. I'll check in on you later. Now if you don't mind, I need to lecture Alfred about the importance of sleep again."

From his spot by the doorway, Alfred smiles wryly. He watches as Arthur rises, swipes a bit of lint off of his trousers, and approaches him. He looks surprisingly calm and composed, as though it's completely normal for him to have a drunken friend drool and slobber all over his couch on a weekday at a quarter to eleven o'clock. In the face of unanticipated chaos and disorder, he is completely fine and ready for one last cup of tea before turning in for the night.

"Well, then," he murmurs, green eyes warm. "Would you like me to tuck you in?"

"I'm not a little kid anymore," Alfred huffs, following the man up the steps. He has become incredibly prideful in recent years, and he has a sneaking suspicion that it's because his stubborn ol' caretaker is rubbing off on him. "Maybe just tonight though…"


Mr. Arthur Kirkland,

Yes, we have received your eighth inquiry regarding the residential status of Matthew Jones. As you may know, many children have been in and out of the doors of this facility over the last two decades, and, admittedly, the maintenance of the records of these children has not always been a priority, especially since the start of the economic downturn. If the documentation of Matthew Jones has not been updated or filed properly, it is as though he never existed in the eyes of this institution.

We apologize for being unable to offer you any further assistance in this matter, but this is the current state of our foster-care system, of which we have little control over.

Sincerest sympathies,

The Children's Aid

"Whatcha got there, kid?"

Alfred lets the letter fall from his hands and onto the kitchen table before looking up at Gilbert (who is nursing a hangover and has already taken the maximum daily recommended dose of aspirin). Hastily, he stuffs the letter back into its envelope and hides his hands behind his back. "Nothing!"

It's the morning after the whole drunken fiasco, and Gilbert is staying over for breakfast against his will because Arthur insistedhe have a bite to eat before leaving.

"Ahh, you're snooping? Don't worry. My lips are sealed."

Alfred sighs and takes his place at the end of the table, head bowed. Still no luck with finding Mattie then. "It's not even a big deal."

"If you say so."

It's then that Arthur returns from the bathroom, dressed for work in his freshly cleaned suit and tie. He's going to be absent for the majority of yet another weekend, but Alfred can't even find the energy in himself to be disappointed.

Arthur's scrambled eggs today are semi-crispy but very edible, and Alfred doesn't realize quite how much he's enjoying them until his plate is sparkling white and empty.

"The emergency number to the firm is on my desk, Alfred."

He's already memorized it. "I know."

"I'll be back for dinner. If you go out, don't leave the front yard."

"I won't."

When will the man stop treating him like a baby? Is it too much to ask for more freedom every now and then?

Arthur and Gilbert leave together, and Alfred sees them off. Once they're gone, he supposes some air would do him good and sits by the small tree in the front yard, watching the clouds morph into interesting shapes.

It gets boring after a while, and just as he thinks he should go and get his soccer ball from inside, he spots Francis trotting along the road with two handfuls of grocery bags.

Launching into action, Alfred crosses the street and joins him. "Do you need any help?"

"Oh, Alfred, mon lapin," Francis greets him cheerfully. "That would be magnifique, thank-you! My old bones don't have the strength they used to, you know."

"You're not old."

"Ah, you're too kind. When did you become such a charming gentleman? Stay this way forever. Nothing good comes from age."

"But I thought wisdom comes with age."

Francis barks with laughter and nearly drops a batch of tomatoes as he unlocks the door to his house. "I'd rather be young and thoughtless, honestly. By the way, how is Gilbert doing? Has he recovered from his unrequited love yet?"

Alfred frowns, rounds the corner into Francis's kitchen, and deposits a bag of bread and cheese on the counter. "He's really sad... Why is Ms. Hedervary so angry with him anyway?"

"Mmm… Gilbert shouldn't be opening old wounds. There's a lot of pain between them, which is to be expected."

"But what happened?"

"It's not my place to say."

"I won't tell."

Francis smirks and ruffles Alfred's hair. "A nosy gentleman, too, hmm?" He doesn't look like he wants to say anything else, but his loose-lipped nature gets the best of him. It's his fatal flaw; he's a gossip at heart. "Gilbert is fighting his demons as we speak. Demons which he could ignore until now."

"Why can't he ignore them anymore?"

"Because you came along."

"Me?" Alfred splutters, head spinning in confusion as he tries to keep up.

"Yes, you. His daughter would have been only a few years younger than you by now."

"Daughter?"

Francis clicks his tongue and berates himself for saying too much, but it's too late. He jumps into the tale with feverish and full-fledged gusto. "Years ago, when Gilbert was barely older than a boy and still very naïve, he was supposed to have a child with Elizabeta. Of course, it was out of wedlock and very much scorned upon by everyone who knew of it. Nonetheless, they planned to have the child and get married afterward."

"However, the child turned out to be sick. Going through with the delivery would have put Elizabeta's life at risk. She wasn't in a condition to make any medical decisions, so it was Gilbert's choice—Elizabeta or the child. A child, which, may not have survived either way. Well, you can imagine what happened next… It's a decision, I think, that haunts him to this day. Elizabeta, poor girl, couldn't bear it, and they separated. She had plans to leave town, but then the crash happened and she couldn't afford to go."

"I think that when he sees you with Arthur, he wonders what things could have been like. Of course, he still loves Elizabeta dearly, but he's been pressuring her to rekindle their relationship ever since he met you, and she simply wants to move on," Francis finishes, setting the kettle on for tea. "That is why she is upset."

Alfred slumps his shoulders and feels a wave of pity crash against his ribcage. "But it's not his fault. He did what he thought was good, right?"

"You won't realize this until you're much older, mon chou, but there's nothing, nothing, a parent wouldn't do to protect the life of their child, especially a mother. It's very difficult to recover from such loss. One hopes they will both heal, but it is a very splintered relationship. They've been bickering for years."

"But shouldn't they work it out together? I mean, if I lost someone, I wouldn't want to be alone."

"Try explaining that to two very stubborn people," Francis sighs, running a hand over his chin.

"Do you think they'll ever get back together?"

"I have doubts."

Three years. Three years since he started living here and Alfred finally knows the truth about Gilbert and what he's been so eager to hide. And now that he knows, he can't stop the gaping hole of sorrow from growing in his chest.

"Please don't say anything about it."

"I won't… Not about serious stuff like that," Alfred promises.

He spends the rest of the day at home.


"How do you think you did on that test?"

"Bad," Alfred grumbles as he walks along the bank of a little river with Toris not too far from school. It's beginning to get colder again as autumn moves in and makes itself comfortable, so they're trying to enjoy the last, few, beautiful days they can salvage. "How about you?"

"Also bad."

"How are you going to get your dad to sign it if you failed?"

"I haven't come up with a plan yet," Toris admits, throwing a pebble into the water. "Maybe I'll just tell him I never got it back."

Alfred shakes his head and kicks off his shoes so he can dip his toes into the gentle, rushing inflow. "Nah, that won't work. Your dad will call my dad, and they'll figure it out."

They travel downstream at a leisurely pace. It's relatively quiet and peaceful, but they know not to get too close to the mouth of the stream because that's where the strange men are—the drifters. Most of them are just ordinary people who have had horrible luck since the start of the depression, but there are a few who aren't friendly, and both Alfred and Toris have been scolded more than once for trying to speak to them.

"Don't bother those poor people. They've been through enough, and the last thing they need is to listen to your grating list of questions," Alfred remembers Arthur telling him on one such occasion.

But Alfred used to be like them, too, and he doesn't need to be told to leave them alone because he understands what it's like to not want to be seen by anyone. He knows how even if you want to ask for help, you won't because you don't want to seem like another beggar. Some men would rather die with a sense of honor than to live with a feeling of shame.

"Hey, if you were old enough to vote, who would you vote for?" Toris asks him out of the blue.

Alfred thinks back to all of the conversations he's had with Arthur regarding the upcoming election and says, "Franklin Roosevelt."

Toris nods and seems satisfied with the answer. "Yeah, that's who Dad's voting for… Do you think things will get better with him as president?"

"Maybe."

"Yeah…"

Toris picks up another rock to toss into the river, except as he reaches down, an orange creature shoots forward from underneath a boulder and snaps at his ankle. He lets out a fearful shout, and Alfred runs over to save him, chasing off the thing with a loud hissing noise and some raucous stomping.

"It's okay. It was a copperhead snake. Did it bite you?" Alfred asks once the creature slithers away once more. "They're not so bad, I promise. You'll be okay."

He crouches down to have a look at Toris's ankle, and sure enough, there are two angry, round teeth marks embedded into his skin. He lets out a long breath and gives Toris a reassuring smile, staying calm despite the fact that Toris looks like he's going to start hyperventilating.

"Let's go find your dad," Alfred decides, wrapping an arm around Toris's shoulders and walking him upstream because the boy is too stunned to move without a little encouragement. "It was just a copperhead. People get bitten by them all the time."

White as a sheet, Toris gives him a sideways glance and asks, "Am I going to die?"

"No. Nobody dies from copperhead bites. I read about them for a project we did in Mr. Honda's class that one time, remember?"

"Are they poisonous?"

"Barely," Alfred assures, but 'barely' doesn't go over well with Toris and he starts breathing rapidly again, panicked. "Your dad will know what to do."

"It hurts."

"Well, yeah, it's gonna hurt, but that doesn't mean you're gonna die."

Toris blinks at him as though he's said something completely profound and murmurs, "It hurts a lot."

"We won't go back to that river again, okay?"

It's quite the walk, but they cover the distance rather quickly, and once they get to Toris's house, Alfred inwardly prays that Ivan is home, because if he isn't, they're going to have to go on a wild goose chase around the town for him.

Fortunately, however, he isn't attending to any patients, and the door to the house swings open, revealing the tall Russian man with a grim expression on his face.

"What happened?" he asks, immediately reaching out to embrace Toris with one arm. "Toris, say something."

"A copperhead snake bit him," Alfred informs, pushing Toris lightly to walk further into the house. "He thinks he's going to die."

Somewhat relieved, Ivan laughs warmly and directs Toris into the bathroom. He gets him to sit on the counter while he pulls up a stool to elevate the ankle in question and have a better look at it. "I need to clean out the wound. It's going to burn a little," he warns before pressing a washcloth with disinfectant onto the injury.

Toris, of course, lets out a whimper of complaint. Alfred squeezes his shoulder for moral support, and it seems to help.

"Copperheads are common," Ivan states before rummaging around through the medicine cabinet.

Alfred lifts a brow and gives Toris a smug grin. "That's what I told him."

"I'll be back in a minute, little ones. I need to get something from the refrigerator. Nobody move."

Alfred tries to keep Toris as calm as he can and says, "See? It's gonna be fine."

"Thanks for chasing it away," Toris says weakly, now exhausted from the commotion.

"You know I always have your back. You're my best friend."

"Really?"

"Really!"

Ivan returns with a little vial and a syringe, and Alfred takes a few steps back, suddenly uneasy as well.

"Hold still, Toris. This is the anti-venom. You're not the first person to get bitten," Ivan remarks, pulling up the boy's sleeve and giving him the shot in one of the veins in the crook of his arm. "Now we just have to put a bandage over the bite and keep it clean."

When he's finished being treated, Toris hops down from the bathroom counter and asks, "Can Alfred stay over for dinner?"

Ivan smiles and says, "Alfred is always welcome here, but I need to make sure it's okay with Arthur first."

Looking much more like himself, Toris grabs Alfred by the wrist and leads him to his room. "C'mon, I've got this new board game I want to try out."

"Wait, before you two go—" Ivan calls out, following them into the hallway.

Alfred turns around and tilts his head to the side, noticing the odd look in Ivan's eyes. If he's not mistaken, it's gratitude.

"You were a good boy to bring Toris home. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Alfred says with a bright smile, wondering when he stopped being so afraid of Ivan and started seeing him as a friend.


There are lots of broken people in this town. It's not noticeable at first, but it's still there, like a scar hiding just beneath the surface. It's time he did something about it.

While Arthur is inside cooking dinner one day, Alfred takes his soccer ball and sits by the garden, waiting. He waits and waits, knowing that after enough waiting he'll be rewarded, because the person he's looking for always takes the same route around this time, and there's no way he can miss him.

Soon enough, a figure with a sturdy gait comes marching by.

"Hey, Gilbert!" Alfred shouts to him, loud enough to be heard.

Gilbert turns to him and gives him a brief wave of acknowledgement, not stopping his stroll. "Hallo, kid."

"Wanna play soccer with me?"

At that, the man pauses and looks at him with furrowed brows. "What?"

"Do you want to play soccer with me?" Alfred repeats himself, being more clear the second time. "I don't have anyone to play with, and I'm bored just waiting around for Arthur to finish dinner."

"It's not my job to entertain you," Gilbert huffs, although there isn't any bitterness laced in his words.

"Come on, please? Please, please, please."

"All right, all right! Mein Gott, kids today are so demanding and entitled!"

Once they start to play, Alfred can tell that Gilbert hasn't played soccer for a very long time because he's so eager and enthusiastic that he beats Alfred over and over again with increasing animation, striking multiple goals at the 'net,' which is really just a line of sidewalk chalk drawn on the fence to mark the approximate width of an actual net. He's never heard the man laugh so hard and for so long.

Once or twice, Alfred sees a curious Arthur peek his head out of the kitchen window to find out what they're up to, but he doesn't interrupt them nor does he stay long enough to be seen by Gilbert.

That is, until it's time to eat.

"Alfred, that's enough for tonight. The food is getting cold," Arthur announces when he can prolong the match no longer.

Gilbert smirks and pats the side of Alfred's head fondly. "Good game, kid. Now go stuff your face."

Alfred picks up his ball and gives Gilbert a high-five as he leaves, sweating and red-face but overjoyed nonetheless. He slogs his way into the house, peels off his dirty sneakers, brings the ball up to his room, and washes his hands before returning downstairs to the kitchen table, where Arthur is patiently waiting for him.

The food is already set out, and when Alfred sits down, he realizes that Arthur has been staring at him for a good minute or so.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Arthur tries to hide his smile and shifts his attention to his plate. "Oh, it's nothing, my boy."

But it's not nothing because Alfred is suddenly smiling, too.