A/N: So this story has been kinda haunting me a little. I finally reread it and for the first 6 chapters, I was like, "This is really good. Why did I stop?" And by chapter 8, I remembered. I hated what I'd written. The direction had changed drastically, everyone was super OOC, and I had struggled to enjoy writing it which really showed. But I was reinspired after rereading the first few chapters and thought, "It is a different kind of story. Why not try again?" Since I've done so much damage to the first version, I decided to just overhaul the whole thing. I changed the state because I realized that I messed up real bad with scenery, having never been there. (Also, shoutout to my lil bro who was my first reader of this fic and is now my main inspiration~!)

If you read the first version of this story, you'll probably be able to recognise a lot. But hopefully it's hella different.

I kinda flipped through the fanfic more recently to see how active this fandom was, and I think that it's still doing pretty well. So we'll see how this does.

I think most of the human names are established now, but if you have questions, just ask! I may have just accepted some of the names I made up forever ago as canon since it's been a solid 6 years since I've messed around in the fandom. Please review if you're so inclined!

~:-:~

One

October 3, Friday

Matthew could hardly believe that they were really there - their ballroom team had made State! They were up on stage with some of the best kids in Colorado. He was practically vibrating backstage, watching two couples from a school in Northern Colorado - Berthoud High, he thinks - waltz across the stage. "They're pretty good, huh?" Alfred, his brother, asks, his hands tucked behind his back as he leans forward to watch. He nods, unable to keep his eyes off the dancers. He can't decide which team is better. "Do you think we have a chance?"

"Are you kidding?" Matthew scoffs and rolls his eyes. "We'll wipe the floor with their tears!" He makes a determined fist. A boy from one of the opposing teams passes by and mutters, "Jeez…" Mathew pays him no mind and Alfred laughs. "Are you ready for your solo?"

"Hell yeah, dude!" Alfred replies enthusiastically. "I could dance it in my sleep. Which is coincidentally exactly what I've been doing - it's in my dreams." Matthew shakes his head. "It's just crazy that we're here, ya know? I can't believe Mom and Dad actually let us."

It was rather strange, really. Usually Mom and Dad were so afraid of the boys being in the spotlight, they weren't even allowed on field trips. This is the first time they've been allowed to do something like this - and it's even being broadcasted to schools across the state. The teams that make it to Regionals will have their tapes reviewed by teams nationwide. Matthew wishes he could forget that part, because it makes him feel more than a little nervous. The couples on stage wrap up and run offstage with a round of applause following them. "I guess that means you're up, eh?"

Alfred smiles weakly, the nerves obviously finally getting to him. "Yeah, I guess it does…" His partner, Dezeray, is behind the curtains stage left, grinning confidently. "Wish me luck," he mutters and heads out. Dezeray stops a little shorter than she has in rehearsals and he gives her a quizzical look as he takes a couple extra awkward steps to meet her there. She doesn't give anything away as they get into position. The audience hushes, the music starts, and after counting off a beat, they're swirling across the stage in a mesmerising waltz.

But something's off - he can feel it, he just can't place it. "Where are you?" Dezeray hisses through her tight-lipped smile. "Focus." He does his best not to give her a snide answer, turning his attention back to his footwork instead.

It's about when they hit center stage that he realises what's off, but it's a little late for that. The backlights are too far off to his left, which means they aren't really in the center at all. No one but them and maybe the dance instructor would notice how off-center they are. Their next few steps will take them toward the edge of the stage. With this realization, Alfred attempts to understep, willing to take the hit in points if he can avoid the edge of the stage. It backfires on him, though, and he finds himself blinded by the floor lights as Dezeray oversteps and their knees knock.

He grunts, trying to compensate, but on his next step, his heel catches the lip of the stage, unbalancing him. Either Dezeray doesn't notice or doesn't care because she pulls back, spinning out, and now his only support is his left hand in her right. He tries to use the momentum to haul himself back up but it's no good - his balance is lost and his other foot hits the light as he crashes off the stage with a curse and a loud thud.

October 4, Saturday

It's exceptionally early for Arthur to be awake, Francis muses as he stares at the empty space in the bed, half-made. He doesn't usually bother getting up before eight on weekends, because he always has to be awake at five for work the rest of the time. He groans, rolling out of bed and wanders to the bathroom. He comes back out and makes the bed, contemplating the day ahead. The quiet noise of the television going draws him downstairs. Arthur is sitting on the floor, paperwork strewn about him. That's right, midterms. He's not staring at the papers, but at the television which is broadcasting some local news. He hears Francis and turns to smile at him. "Ah, you're awake then. Hope this wasn't too loud."

"Non," Francis replies, leaning down to give him a short kiss. "What are you watching?"

Arthur rolls his eyes and grabs the remote, rewinding a little ways. "Look at this. You remember me telling you about that ballroom competition some of my students were prattling on about, don't you?" Francis makes a sound of agreement, though he's wracking his brain in an attempt to remember such a comment. "It was broadcast last night and one of the dancers literally danced his way off the stage. Ended in the police being called."

Francis snorts, watching the footage. "It's been years, but aren't they a little off center?" he muses aloud. "The instructor should have caught it…" Sure enough, the blond boy hits the edge of the stage and topples off. The audience in the front row rises and two people rush to the boy.

"Yes, as an aside, I do hope they did something about that girl." Arthur shuffles a few papers and looks for his red pen. "It looked like she did it on purpose."

"Police were later called as concern arose that the boy's parents had no intention of taking him to the hospital. He's currently still…"

"Hm," Francis mutters as the report continues. "Too bad about his parents. His foot is probably fractured, at least. Hopefully it doesn't end his dancing career - he's quite good."

Arthur makes a sound of agreement, hesitates, and says, "His name is Alfred. Alfred F something. I can't remember. Kind of stings a little, doesn't it?"

It's been ten years. Ten very long years since their twin boys went missing. And even though they've managed to continue on - mostly for the sake of their oldest son - the hole from their missing boys still twinges. The name brings back a memory of their son, Alfred, just a few days after his sixth birthday.

"I'm Alfred Fitzgerald now!" he proclaims loudly, standing on a kitchen chair.

Arthur stares at him, smiling softly, as he sips at his tea. "I'm fairly certain I named you Alfred Fredrick…"

"Yeah, but Wynn said that there was a famous author named Fitzgerald and I think it sounds better," Alfred explains decidedly. "So I'm changing it!"

Francis nods distractedly, standing up and heading to the kitchen. It feels a little colder. "I'll start on breakfast. I take it you haven't had anything yet?"

"Just coffee," Arthur answers, tone despondent as he stares blankly at the television, the papers forgotten again. Francis wishes he'd just turn it off. Before he can get too involved in breakfast, however, there's a loud knock on the door. He frowns to himself. Wynn isn't supposed be here until next weekend - not that he ever knocks anyway. Arthur grumbles something under his breath as he gets up to answer the door. "Basch," he greets in surprise.

Francis steps out of the kitchen. Basch is a good family friend, and does still occasionally visit, but today feels different. Maybe it's that they were just reminiscing or maybe it's because Basch is in uniform - whatever it is sets Francis's heart off racing.

"Hello," Basch says in his awkward Swiss accent. He glances at the television and wrinkles his nose. "Damn. Should have known that the news would beat me to it." Arthur motions him inside and he steps in, closing the door behind him. "I can't stay - I'm headed to Denver now. But I wanted to talk to you first."

"What do they need you in Denver for?" Francis asks, raising his eyebrows in surprise. Basch is a police officer for their sleepy little town and, to his knowledge, has never been called out of it before.

Basch crosses his arms over his chest and avoids eye contact. "That boy who fell off the stage… Roderich and Elizabeta were there and went to help. They were the ones who called the police."

"Because the parents weren't going to rush him to the ER?" Arthur sounds as skeptical as Francis feels. Basch wouldn't be here if that was all.

Basch shakes his head. "Their call wasn't entirely about that. It was about the boy who fell and his mom. Elizabeta swore she'd seen them before. They did end up taking him to the hospital but the receptionist was having trouble verifying identities and alerted authorities. Denver PD just reopened your cold case."

October 4, Saturday

"Man, I'm so done here," Alfred groans, flopping back into his pillows dramatically.

Last night's performance keeps playing in his head, a broken record skipping around on repeat. He's not sure what he's more annoyed about - ruining his team's chances of advancing, fracturing his foot and breaking his elbow, or that his parents are in jail for an undisclosed reason. All of it has his stomach churning, though. He wants to leave the hospital, go home. He's feeling fidgety.

"Al, just sit still," Matthew says for the upteenth time from his chair beside the bed. He can sit for hours and never get uncomfortable. Alfred doesn't know how he does it. "You're going to pull the IV - or hurt yourself."

Alfred scoffs. His arm is in an annoyingly stiff splint, going from his shoulder to his hand, and limiting most movement with it being in a high sling. His foot, however, is only in a brace, and an uncomfortable one at that. "I literally cannot hurt myself any more than I already have," he argues stubbornly and swings his left foot over his ankle. His feet do knock, as he's not quite used to the brace, and a nice sharp jolt of pain surges up from his injured foot. He hisses a curse, now more annoyed than before.

Matthew takes his glasses off and puts his face in his hands with a very quiet groan of impatience. "Nineteen stupid hours… I haven't had to spend this much time alone with you since we got grounded for a week while on vacation in Georgia…"

Alfred chuckles at the memory. "You were so mad at me, I thought you were gonna throw me out the window…" He grins at his brother, something in his chest tightening in a dull ache. No matter what they'd been through, Matthew had always been his best friend. He's here now, curled in a hospital chair and trying to keep him from going crazy. "Hey, Mattie…" He waits for his brother to put his glasses back on and look at him. "Thanks, bro."

Matthew rolls his eyes but smiles. "By the way, I've meant to ask you - did you hear what Dezeray yelled at you after you fell?"

Alfred shakes his head. To be perfectly blunt, he doesn't remember the fall, just the pain of trying to get up after. His ears had been buzzing and he'd been afraid of a concussion. But when an opposing team's instructor had come to check on him and dropped the words "broken bones", he hadn't really wanted to add "possible concussion" to the list of things that could be wrong. He's already planning on physical therapy. He knows people have quit dance because of injuries more minor than his own. He's unwilling to let that idea get too far into his head, though. It sends his heart racing and his mind fogs with a sort of panic. Not dance? Ever again? He can't fathom it. He needs it like the air he breathes. He turns his attention back to his brother, slowing his breathing so the heart monitor won't pick up on it - sure, it's volume has long since been muted, but Alfred gets the distinct feeling that Matthew is still watching it. "What did she yell?"

"I couldn't catch all of it," Matthew admits sheepishly, like he's afraid of spreading an untrue rumor. "She called you a cheater. Like, something along the lines of, 'that's for cheating'." To his surprise, Alfred bursts into a hearty laugh. "Al! She could have set you up on purpose!"

"I can't help it!" Alfred cries between bouts of laughter. He tries to explain but keeps falling into fits of giggles at the idea. Matthew sits back, waiting for his brother to come to his senses again. "Okay, she's a psychopath. But we knew that, right?"

"I didn't think she was at 'throw you off the stage' level of psycho yet," Matthew mumbles in irritation. She had caused a lot of damage and his brother is laughing about it?

"To be fair, I didn't think that either," Alfred concedes, still grinning. "But I know exactly what she thinks I did and it's the funniest thing you'll ever hear."

But Matthew doesn't get the chance to hear the punchline as someone raps gently on the door before coming inside. It's a police officer, one they hadn't seen yet, and who is obviously not from Denver. It's apparent from the way he holds himself - and the badge he wears on his arm reads a town the boys haven't heard of. There's this moment that they all just stare at each other before the officer clears his throat. "Hello," he says awkwardly. "I'm Officer Zwingli. You can call me Basch."