"He collapsed on the floor and his breathing was very heavy and fast," Lily timidly, but gravely, explained without meeting Alfred's eyes, "And none of us knew what to do, so I came to you because you probably know."

When Alfred let go of her wrist, where they stood in the middle of the main street, he noticed the redness he left on her skin after having held onto her so firmly.

"W-well, I…" he began, his stream of words coming to a blockade. What would Lily, and everyone else, think if he said that he had absolutely zero idea of what to do? That he had just recently vaguely found out that Dad's war memories were still lingering in his body, and maybe causing him problems? That Alfred wasn't someone they could rely on to handle this?

"Lily, listen…" Alfred tried, but the words once again got choked. No matter how fiercely he fought for the liberation of his words and thoughts, they were tied down like soldiers caught by an enemy force, and Alfred kept stuttering his way through a sentence that was nonsensical at best.

And then Lily slapped him across the cheek.

"Your father needs you now," she said in a low tone (as low as she could), before heading for the house again with no more words uttered.

The silence of the street echoed in Alfred's head as he saw her little frame run farther and farther out of reach, and a second slap from reality nearly knocked him out.

Dad had collapsed.

No one knew what to do.

The least Alfred could do was to get control over the situation, like a proper grown-up.


The door was in sight. Alfred hooked his hand onto Lily's forearm and dragged her along as he sped up. They stumbled through the door, almost falling in the process.

"Upstairs," Lily panted as she supported her hands on her knees, Alfred grappling the handrail by the stairs to keep himself from literally stumbling through the door. Three steps at a time, he was upstairs in the wink of an eye and he stepped through the door frame that led to the living room. What met his eyes was Eliza kneeling beside the couch, and Dad lying on his back with his head supported by two pillows. Without a word, Alfred took meager steps inside, his gaze glued to the red face of Dad and his fluttering eyelashes.

"We're so sorry, Alfred," Elizabeta said and removed the washing cloth from Arthur's forehead, "We had no idea what to do."

Alfred stood beside her but didn't kneel down. Instead, he looked at Arthur's face and made sure his breathing was stable. Which it wasn't. It was unsteady and uneven, as if he were trying to deliver a speech right after having run through town five times. He looked like any other person than the calm, witty and strict Dad. Alfred turned to look at Elizabeta who was now standing as well next to him, and Alfred felt his jaws churn.

"What do I do..?" he asked her, and she looked as if she wanted to embrace him.

"Has this never happened before?" she asked instead, putting her arm around Lily when she entered the living room as well.

"No," Alfred replied, his eyes gradually looking more and more to his feet.

"I guess none of us know what to do, then," Elizabeta chortled sympathetically.

"...No," Alfred said, his vision blurrier than usual and the area around his eyes burning. He quickly turned around and tucked his shirt into his pants to cover up the sound of his single sniff.

"Was Peter here when you came over?" he asked promptly.

"Arthur said he was out playing," Lily said equally stiffly, "But I think it would be for the best if we told him too."

A brief chuckle came from Alfred's lips as he eventually turned around, not knowing that his eyes were still a little blank.

"We are absolutely not telling-"

Alfred realized in that moment that God would never be on his side; Two voices, one from each side of the room, sounded throughout, either muttering "Al…?" or gasping "Alfie!?"

As if it couldn't get more chaotic.

Peter's quick steps raced across the room and over to Alfred, before he caught notice of Dad on the couch looking like he had just pulled three all-nighters in a row. As Peter latched onto him and let all the questions in his mind cascade through his mouth, Elizabeta and Lily excused themselves out as Alfred briefly thanked them for their assistance. Once he heard the outer door shut, he approached the couch once again and looked down at the two others. Dad didn't seem to be keeping up with Peter's frantic speech.

"Peter, shut it," Alfred bluntly commanded, and Peter's little voice immediately disappeared from the space.

Once the silence settled, Arthur's blank eye began moving and his breathing steadied ever so slightly. First, he laid his eyes on Peter who was on the verge of tears next to him, and softly stroked his cheek. Then he looked up at Alfred and weakly beckoned him to come closer, and let his arm fall when he refused.

"Mighty nice of the ladies to check on you," Arthur said, voice cracked and stuck in his throat, but as calm as could be.

However, when Alfred looked upon the calm and familial scenery, the burning in his chest blazed up and became a storm. With hands trembling and heart hammering against his ribcage, it took him every last piece of temperance to not give Arthur a solid punch in the face.

"Why the hell didn't you say anything?" he simply asked as he forced his voice to stay sturdy. Both pairs of eyes in front of him instantaneously looked his way.

"Say anything about what?" Arthur asked and cleared his throat.

"What do you think?" Alfred shot back with a sarcasm that carried a heavy load of his inner turmoil. Arthur's eyebrows furrowed slightly. Peter turned around to fully look at his older brother.

"I frankly don't know, Al, I-"

"I bet you think I'm stupid like everyone else does," Alfred spat and clenched his fists, "And I am stupid but don't you think I'd find out eventually? Or am I really that hopeless?"

"Find out about what?" Peter asked.

"Hell, what did you even rescue me for if all we're supposed to do is to live up here and not be able to go anywhere?" Immediately Alfred wished to take that back, but he couldn't stop now; The storm was already ablaze and he made sure no one was left unscorched.

"Al, why don't you please tell us what's wrong?" Arthur pleaded, and Alfred felt all these weeks of preparing for this question fuel the storm.

"Why don't you tell me what's wrong? Or maybe it's better to just keep everything for ourselves, since you love doing that so much?"

"Alfie, what's wrong?" Peter blubbered.

"It pisses me the fff- off that freakin' Lily and Eliza knew about this problem before both me and Peter!" Alfred accused with a significantly raised voice.

"What problem, Alfie?"

"Al, come on, be reasonable-"

"You be reasonable, for Pete's sake! Were you ever thinking of telling me and Peter about your psych- psychogol- psyol- mental problems, or were you going to wait for a crisis situation and we didn't know what to do!? If Lily and Eliza weren't here-"

"What problem?" Peter tried again.

"I said shut it!" Alfred yelled at him, his eyes wide.

"Hey!" Arthur shouted, snapping his fingers into an accusing point toward Alfred. His piercing glare watered slightly. "You quit that insolence this instant."

In the short-lived quietness, Peter was sobbing and begging Alfred to calm down. Arthur kept looking at Alfred while a few already present tears pathetically ran down his cheek. Alfred took a small step back, gesturing vaguely everywhere as he himself felt his eyes prickle. In the haze of his blistering flare-up, he opened his mouth repeatedly without any words escaping. Of all the sins committed in this house, why was his the ones worth pointing out? Was it wrong of him to rightfully accuse Arthur of keeping secrets from the family, and to try and give him the taste of his own medicine? Indeed, Alfred too kept secrets but his case was different. He was going to tell them one day, but in Arthur's case it had been eight years and he hadn't said shit.

"You-" Alfred started, his words once again getting caught up in his throat. Trembling with unspoken words, he clenched and unclenched his fists, but realized that the watchful eyes of the others far overpowered whatever he was trying to cough up.

In the end, Alfred turned around as Peter tried his best with his miserable, whiny voice to talk reason into him. Alfred wished he had some dramatic line to mumble under his breath before leaving, but his mind was as blank as his eyes when he left the living room.

His pulse threatened to pulverize his skull.

His eyes stung.

His jaw churned.

His body was made of bricks.

Before he could allow tears to well up, he let his world go black for a moment.